THE  OTHER. 
MAN'S  WIFE 


Frank 
Richardsoa 


«  * 


THE    OTHER    MAN'S    WIFE 


BT  FRANK  RICHARDSON 
2835   MAYFAIR 
LOVE  AND   ALL   ABOUT   IT 
THERE   AND   BACK 
THE    SECRET   KINGDOM 
THE    BAYSWATER   MIRACLE 
THE    KING'S   COUNSEL 
SEMI-SOCIETY 
THE    MAN    WHO    LOST    HIS    PAST 


The  Other 
Man's  Wife 


By 
Frank   Richardson 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
2  East  zgth  Street 


Copyright,  1908 
By  Mitchell  Kennerley  All  Rights  Reserved 


To 

My  Friend 
R.  H. 


Stolen  waters  are  sweet,  and  bread  eaten 
in  secret  is  pleasant,  but  he  knoweth  not 
that  the  dead  are  there,  and  her  guests 
are  in  the  depths  of  hell.  PROVERBS 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  "THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.   AINSLIE"  .         .  7 

II.    A    HOME    IN    BAYSWATER             ...  20 

III.    THE    PALL    MALL   THEATRE       ...  28 

IV.  A  MOTHERS'  MEETING  ....  45 

V.    BAYSWATER  BILLY               ....  54 

VI.    THE   MISFORTUNES  OF  A  GREAT  ACTOR       .  59 

VII.    AN     EMINENT     MEDICAL     MAN             .             .  73 

VIII.    THE    BEHAVIOUR    OF    BILLY       ...  82 

IX.    THE    BEST    CLERK    IN    THE    TEMPLE             .  Ql 

X.    A     DINNER     PARTY               .             .             .             .  100 

XI.  "A  COLD  WOMAN"         .         .         .         .  114 

XII.    THE  DEFENCE  OF  THE  YOGHI  AND  PRISCILLA  123 

XIII.    CARLTON    HOUSE    TERRACE       .             .             .  132 

XIV.    MRS.   AINSLIE   AND   THE    PARTNERSHIP       .  142 

XV.    THE     MUNIFICENCE     OF     MONTAGUE             .  152 

XVI.  "WEDDING  OF  AN  EMINENT  ACTOR'S  SISTER"  163 

XVII.  IN  THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  ROOM         .         .  172 

XVIII.    LASHBRIDGE    SEES    HIS   WAY       .             .             .  185 

XIX.    THE    LORD    CHANCELLOR    AND    LUNCH       .  1Q8 

XX.  "SHE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEAD"     .         .         .  211 

XXI.  "WOPSERING" 226 

XXII.    A    GREAT    TRIUMPH             ....  240 
XXIII.    CONCERNING      THE      LOYALTY      OF      LADY 

MEYVILLE          .....  249 

XXIV.    THE    GREAT    SORROW    AND    THE    TOPIC       .  258 

XXV.    THE    POSITION    OF    BILLY            .             .             .  26  t 

XXVI.    THE  ATTITUDE  OF  LADY  MEYVILLE  .             .  27- 


6  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  pAOE 

XXVII.    IN  THE  DIVORCE   COURT             .             .            .  276 

XXVIII.    THE  PROPOSED  PROSECUTION  OF  "A.  B."  .  286 

XXIX.    THE    ANNIVERSARY            ....  293 

XXX.    THE   CRY  IN  THE   NIGHT         .  .             .             .  303 

XXXI.    THE    REVOLVER       .             .             .             .             .  311 

XXXII.    THE  HINT  OF  THE  "HANGING  JUDGE"       .  317 

XXXIII.    RICHARD  AND  GWENDOLEN       .             .             .  32Q 

XXXIV.    THE   UTILITY  OF  DR.   PLAGDEN           .             .  340 

XXXV.    THE   DEFENCE    OF    GABRIELLE    LEVI             .  348 

XXXVI.    THE   FUNERAL 356 

XXXVII.    ILLNESS 362 

XXXVIII.  NURSES          .         .         .         .         .         .  372 

XXXIX.    "STANDETH    THE    REAPER"       .            .            .  382 
XL.    THE   SUMMING-UP 


The  Other  Man's  Wife 

CHAPTER  I 

"THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  AINSLIE" 

"Tnis  is  the  sweetest  thing  you  have  ever  written 
to  me." 

An  affectation  of  amused  bewilderment  was  the 
young  man's  answer  to  her  pause. 

As  he  lay  on  the  sofa,  his  eyes  opened.  But  they 
seemed,  if  they  expressed  anything,  to  express  entire 
absence  of  mind. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said. 

Then  she  drew  from  her  bodice  a  small  piece  of  folded 
paper.  "You  know  now,"  she  persisted,  walked  to  the 
sofa,  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  read : — 

"Mr  DARLING, — By  all  means. — Who  kisses  your 
eyes  ? — RICHARD." 

She  looked  at  him  tenderly,  confident  in  his  love,  and 
seeking  only  some  slight  formal  appreciation  from  him. 
But  he  made  no  reply. 

"Isn't  it  sweet?"  she  asked,  intent  on  exciting  his 
interest. 

"You  like  it?" 

She  drew  away  from  him  for  a  second,  as  she  said 
affectionately  and  without  any  suggestion  of  criticism: 

"It  isn't  often  that  I  get  a  really  perfect  letter  from 


8  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

you.  But  this  is  delightful.  This  means  you.  It's 
businesslike,  but  it's  kind  .  .  .  it's  you." 

Gwendolen  hung  upon  her  pleasure  in  the  note. 

The  young  man,  smiling,  stroked  the  back  of  her 
neck  with  a  familiarly  caressing  action. 

Then  he  rose,  and  walked  to  the  mantelpiece,  with  the 
long,  swinging  stride  that  was  characteristic  of  him. 
He  turned  to  the  table  on  which  were  sandwiches,  a 
carafe  of  whisky,  a  syphon  of  soda-water,  and  a  crystal 
jug  of  lemonade.  He  handed  her  a  glass  of  lemonade. 
He  poured  out  some  whisky  and  soda,  and,  in  doing  so, 
caught  sight  of  his  reflection  in  the  mirror. 

"I  am  feeling  terribly  tired,  dear." 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  she  said,  patting  the  sofa  with 
a  slim  white  hand. 

He  sat  by  her  side. 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  as  he  gazed  in  placid 
content  at  the  luxury  of  his  surroundings.  The  decora- 
tion of  the  library  had  been  Gwendolen's  own  idea.  On 
the  walls  were  panels  of  untanned  cowhide,  studded  with 
dull  brass  nails,  set  in  dead-black  oak.  A  huge  cop- 
per lantern  hung  from  one  of  the  oaken  rafters,  shed- 
ding a  warm  red  and  yellow  glow  on  the  leather. 
The  solitary  bookcase  contained  only  forty  books,  each 
in  a  binding  appropriate  to  its  contents.  From  the 
mass  of  her  reading  Gwendolen  had,  a  year  or  two  ago, 
selected  these  volumes  as  suitable  to  all  possible  moods 
in  her  life.  These  forty  should  be  "Immortals"  for  her. 
She  had  chosen  the  books  simply  for  her  own  satisfac- 
tion, so  her  selection  was  in  a  great  degree  indicative 
of  her  temperament.  By  the  side  of  "Pride  and  Preju- 
dice" stood  "The  Decay  of  Lying,"  the  original  manu- 
script for  which  she  had  paid  150  guineas.  One  was  in 
a  binding  of  vellum,  the  other  of  jade-green  leather. 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  AINSLIE"  9 

From  the  Old  Testament  she  had  selected  the  love-poem 
of  Solomon  and  his  "Wisdom,"  a  slender  volume  of 
rose-pink.  Next  to  it  was  a  superb  edition-de-luxe  of 
Swinburne.  From  Balzac  she  had  chosen  "Cousin 
Bette"  and  "Cousin  Pons,"  "Splendeurs  et  Miseres  des 
Courtisanes"  and  "Fere  Goriot."  "The  Bab  Ballads," 
in  a  jewelled  binding,  was  next  to  a  couple  of  early 
works  by  Henry  James.  Then  came  one  book  of  Huys- 
mann's  and  three  by  Renan.  Then  "Richard  Yea  and 
Nay"  followed  by  "Magdalen's  Husband,"  "The  Man 
Who  Lost  His  Past,"  "Virginibus  Puerisque,"  and  "The 
Maxims  of  Father  Faber."  Kipling  was  represented  by 
a  volume  of  verse,  and  a  book  of  Indian  stories.  Of 
history,  theology,  or  travel  there  was  no  trace.  The 
other  volumes  were  as  various  in  character  as  those 
enumerated.  She  had  snatched  from  literature  such 
spoils  as  were  suited  to  the  taste  of  the  woman  she 
believed  herself  to  be. 

On  occasions  she  had  erred,  had  found  that  an 
alleged  friend  was  really  an  unfortunate  acquaintance 
— in  one  case  an  intolerable  bore.  Such  volumes  she 
had  displaced;  they  had  made  admirable  wedding  gifts 
approved  by  their  recipients. 

The  walls  were  pictureless.  On  the  parquet  floor  lay 
a  few  Eastern  rugs,  soft  and  heather-red.  The  har- 
monies of  the  room  were  so  skilfully  arranged  that  in 
all  temperatures  its  own  temperature  seemed  exactly 
normal. 

There  was  absolute  quiet  in  Green  Street. 

He  felt  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face.  He 
turned  and  looked  at  her. 

He  noticed  the  wonderful  growth  of  her  black  hair, 
hair  that  tenderly  draped  the  brow  on  which  it  nestled. 
The  white  of  her  forehead  was  illumined  by  yellow- 


10  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

brown  eyes,  soft  yet  severe,  expressive  of  her  most 
notable  characteristic — fixity  of  purpose.  Under  her 
eyes  were  strongly  marked  lines  of  violet,  which  gave  a 
certain  mysticism  to  her  expression.  This  violet  col- 
ouring might  have  implied  slight  weariness  or  sorrow. 
But,  in  her  case,  he  knew  that  this  was  not  so.  What- 
ever the  shadows  meant,  they  were  prophetic  rather 
than  descriptive.  The  warm,  full  lips  seemed  almost 
an  unnatural  crimson  in  a  delicate  oval  of  white  and 
pink,  satin  and  rose  petals.  There  was  a  silvery  gleam 
on  her  skin.  Her  neck  was  well  set  on  gracefully  slop- 
ing, opalescent  shoulders,  and,  in  her  figure,  he  saw 
dainty  suggestions  rather  than  crude  statements  of 
facts.  She  was  exquisitely  dressed.  As  she  rose  sud- 
denly with  energetic  grace  from  the  sofa  and  moved 
away  from  him  sinuously  in  her  black  spangles,  he 
remarked  how  suavely  over  the  perfect  curves  fell  the 
rustling  triumph  of  the  dressmaker.  Tall  though  she 
was,  she  possessed  the  dainty  charm  generally  associ- 
ated only  with  little  women,  a  fact  which  had  been 
brought  out  in  a  brilliant  picture  of  her  by  William 
Nicholson. 

She  stood  by  the  mirror,  stroking  with  her  hands 
the  shining  waves  of  hair  on  the  sides  of  her  head,  and 
looking  at  his  reflection  in  the  glass. 

"My  dear  Richard,  if  you  are  too  tired  to  talk, 
surely  you  are  too  tired  to  think.  At  any  rate,  I  am  too 
tired  to  watch  you  thinking  about  anybody  but  me." 

Then  she  turned  round  directly,  smiling  at  him. 

He  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  walked  to  her  side,  fas- 
cinated and  revived  by  her  supple  beauty. 

"I  am  awfully  sorry,  dear,  but  I  have  been  working 
hard  to-day.  I  ought  not  to  have  gone  to  the  theatre 
with  you." 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  AINSLIE"  11 

"You  have  been  working  hard  all  day,"  she  said,  as 
she  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  "and  you  have 
made  five  guineas,  is  it?  People  who  are  underpaid 
are  always  paid  in  guineas.  There  is  something  more 
dignified  in  receiving  a  hundred  guineas  than  in  making 
a  million  pounds." 

He  laughed  with  no  sign  of  weariness. 

"I  think  I  have  made  about  eight  guineas,  partly 
in  the  Whitechapel  County  Court,  partly  at  the  Old 
Bailey,  and  ...  I  have  drawn  an  advice  on  evidence." 

"And  now  my  darling  is  tired.  I've  paid  a  big  price 
for  your  eight  guineas." 

It  pained  her  to  think  that  his  work  should  absorb 
him  to  the  point  of  leaving  no  enthusiasm  for  her 
society. 

The  two  had  been  to  see  the  first  production  of  a 
new  piece.  They  had  witnessed  a  tedious  play,  during 
which  Richard  said  nothing  to  relieve  the  monotony. 
In  the  entr'acte,  which  she  had  hoped  to  find  the  most 
interesting  part  of  the  production,  he  had  left  her  side, 
and  she  had  felt  no  little  annoyance  in  watching  him, 
at  the  entrance  of  the  stalls,  talking  with  animation  to 
people  of  eminence,  prominent  solicitors,  leading  King's 
Counsel,  newspaper  proprietors,  and  persons  whose 
friendship  was  of  value  to  him — people  to  whom  she 
had  introduced  him.  The  fact  that  many  friends  spoke 
to  her  with  unmistakable  admiration  as  they  passed  or 
sat  down  for  a  chat  in  his  empty  seat  afforded  her  no 
satisfaction. 

He  was  a  struggling  barrister.  But  need  he  be 
perpetually  struggling?  Success  is  of  all  characteris- 
tics the  one  that  a  woman  most  admires  in  a  man. 
But  the  methods  by  which  it  is  attained  are  seldom 
interesting  to  the  woman.  And  it  was  particularly 


12  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

galling  to  Gwendolen  that  Richard  would  leave  her  at 
a  moment's  notice  to  pursue  any  trivial  course  which 
should  advance  him  one  hair's  breadth  in  his  career. 

And  now,  when  they  were  alone,  he  was  inanimate 
from  the  labours  of  the  day.  For  an  instant  she  felt 
irritated  at  the  strength  that  showed  itself  so  con- 
spicuously in  his  smooth  brown  hair,  the  almost  aggres- 
sive cut  of  his  chin,  the  brilliant  dark  blue  eyes,  the 
sinuous  and  nervous  hands,  and  the  vigorous  set  of  his 
shoulders. 

That  her  rival  in  his  affection  was,  she  knew,  his 
own  profession,  and  not  another  woman,  detracted  lit- 
tle from  the  bitterness  of  the  rivalry.  She  was  well 
aware  that  his  profession  formed  the  major  portion  of 
his  life.  This  she  had  always  known,  and  her  every  act, 
since  she  had  won  his  love,  had  been  to  press  him 
towards  success — to  increase  thereby  the  attractions  of 
her  rival  .  .  .  and  perhaps  to  gain  some  additional 
gratitude  towards  herself. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  reach  emi- 
nence as  a  barrister,  and  she  felt  that  the  surest  way 
to  secure  her  happiness  was  to  further  him  in  his  efforts 
in  that  direction. 

His  hand  sought  his  watch.     He  was  going. 

"Don't  trouble,  dear,"  she  said,  "it  is  half-past 
twelve." 

To  yield  in  small  things  is  a  convention  in  the  art 
of  love :  so  she  added : 

"Before  you  go,  I  have  something  to  tell  you — some- 
thing of  importance.  It  is  not  about  myself:  it  is 
about  you.  Can  you  wait?" 

Putting  his  arm  round  her  waist,  he  said: 

"I  should  prefer  it  to  be  something  about  you, 
Gwendolen." 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  AINSLIE"  13 

'"Nonsense,"  she  answered.  "Give  me  five  minutes 
and  be  good.  Sit  down  on  the  sofa.  You  know  that 
talking  about  you  gives  me  far  more  pleasure  than 
talking  about  myself.  You  can't  accuse  me  of  egotism, 
can  you?" 

"You  and  I  are  partners.  You  have  done  everything 
in  the  world  to  help  me.  You  discovered  in  me  merits 
that  I  shall  never  possess  until  I  am  too  old  to  use 
them.  It  has  been  awfully  sweet  of  you,  Gwen.  But, 
you  know,  love,  like  any  other  religion,  demands  cer- 
tain sacrifices  of  the  intellect,  doesn't  it?" 

"Don't  moralise, dear.  I  really  have  something  to  say 
to  you — something  that  may  be  of  great  importance. 
Last  night  I  was  dining  with  Sir  Thomas  Clutterbuck, 
and  there  were  lots  of  legal  people  present.  After  din- 
ner, two  barristers,  Counsel  to  the  Treasury  or  some- 
thing, were  talking  mysteriously  to  one  another.  I 
caught  a  wave  of  conversation  that  somehow  drifted  to 
me.  They  were  talking  about  this  horrible  Yoghi 
case." 

"By  Jove,  that's  a  cheery  drawing-room  topic !"  com- 
mented Richard. 

"It  is  the  only  topic  that  is  talked  about  in  draw- 
ing-rooms just  now.  So  much  of  the  evidence  is  left 
out  in  the  newspaper  reports  that  we  have  to  fill  it  in 
over  the  tea-tables.  Everybody  in  the  country  is  curi- 
ous to  know  what  were  the  precise  offences  committed 
by  the  Yoghi  and  Priscilla." 

"But,  after  all,  these  people  have  not  been  convicted 
yet." 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  Gwendolen,  "they  have 
been  found  guilty  by  every  newspaper  in  England — 
they  have  been  sentenced  by  every  Anglo-American 
journal  in  London." 


14  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"The  portraits  of  the  Yoghi  that  I've  seen  are  tan- 
tamount to  a  previous  conviction." 

"Of  course,  but  these  two  legal  harpies  were  lament- 
ing with  a  kind  of  ghoulish  enthusiasm  the  fact  that  the 
prey  cannot  really  be  killed.  It  seems  that  there  is 
some  sort  of  flaw,  do  you  call  it? — in  the  indictment, 
and  that  if  these  terrible  people  could  afford  to  have 
themselves  defended  they  would  get  off." 

"That's  absurd,"  said  Richard.  "Of  course,  they're 
guilty." 

She  smiled,  but  she  smiled  with  intention. 

"I  wish  you  would  take  a  more  professional  view  of 
the  matter.  I  imagine  these  men  know  something  about 
it ;  one,  I  think,  is  a  Counsel  in  the  case.  I  suppose, 
Richard,  you  are  not  the  only  barrister  who  takes  the 
trouble  to  read  his  briefs." 

"Very  interesting,  dear,  very  interesting.  Good- 
night." 

He  had  the  rare  gift  of  saying  unpleasant  things 
pleasantly. 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  don't  understand?  This  is 
the  great  chance  of  your  lifetime." 

"In  what  way?"  he  asked,  staring  at  vacancy  with 
analytical  eyes. 

"In  the  simplest  of  all  possible  ways !  You  must  go 
to  some  solicitor;  you  must  tell  him  to  take  up  the 
case;  and  he  must  instruct  you  to  appear  at  the  Old 
Bailey." 

"My  dear,  I  can't  do  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Here  is  the  chance  of  your  lifetime,"  she  persisted. 
"You  can  get  these  people  off.  Of  course,  they  are 
hideously,  horribly,  revoltingly  guilty,  and  if  you  can 
bring  about  their  acquittal — and  you  can — you  will 
be  the  most-talked  about  man  in  England." 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  AINSLIE"  15 

Though  she  spoke  very  earnestly,  he  turned  away. 

"Ah !"  she  smiled.  "I  know  I  have  said  the  wrong 
tiling.  I  know  that  you  belong  to  the  strictest  Trades 
Union  in  the  country."  She  held  his  face  in  her  hands 
as  she  continued:  "You  are  all  ridiculously  puffed  up 
with  pride.  And  what  are  you  barristers,  after  all? 
Merely  the  maids-of-all-work  to  the  Goddess  of  Justice. 
And  half  the  time  you  get  in  her  way  and  prevent  her 
doing  the  slightest  good.  What's  your  own  personal 
objection  to  a  huge  advertisement?  Of  course,  you're 
right  in  theory.  But  in  practice,  no  man  can  live  with- 
out advertisement  to-day." 

He  remained  firm. 

"Such  a  thing  is  out  of  the  question.  I  can't  dream 
of  it." 

"I  want  you  to  understand  what  the  result  of  your 
success  in  this  case  would  be." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  understand  perfectly.  You  know 
that  I'm  getting  on  fairly  well,  thanks  in  a  very,  very 
large  extent  to  you,  dear,  and  for  that  I'm  very  grate- 
ful .  .  .  but  it's  slow  work." 

Then  she  became  petulant: 

"You  are  grateful  to  me  for  what  I've  done  for  you, 
and  I  am  glad,  with  all  my  heart,  that  you've  let  me 
do  it.  But  now  I  am  asking  you  to  do  something  for 
yourself  which  you  would  let  me  do  for  you,  if  I  could ; 
but,  you  see,  I  can't.  For  some  insane  reason,  for 
some  mediaeval  respect  for  effete  institutions,  you  will 
not  do  it  yourself.  I  am  your  partner,  am  I  not?" 

"In  what?"  he  asked,  well  knowing  the  answer. 

"In  everything,  I  hope."  Her  face  was  mobile  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  her  love  as  she  continued:  "I  do  the 
social  side,  the  work  that  is  suitable  for  a  woman  to 
do,  and  it  is  my  greatest  pleasure  to  contribute  in  the 


16  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

least  bit  to  your  future  success.  You  are  going  to  be 
a  success,  and  you  know  it.  And  I  should  know  very 
little  about  you,  indeed,  if  I  were  not  firmly  convinced 
that  success — astounding  success — is  the  great  desire 
of  your  life." 

He  moved  towards  her,  but  she  interpreted  his  move- 
ment correctly. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  know  what  you  are  going  to 
say.  You  are  going  to  say  that  I  am  the  great  object 
of  your  life;  but  I  am  not.  I  know  that  success  is 
vital  to  your  happiness,  and  that  in  the  case  of  all  men 
there  is  no  possibility  of  lasting  love — even  when  the 
man  and  the  woman  are  not  married  and  have  that 
chance  in  their  favour — unless  it's  set  in  an  atmosphere 
of  contentment.  In  a  man's  life,  love  is  an  extra ;  in  a 
woman's — if  she  loves  at  all — it  is  a  necessity.  Though 
this  has  been  said  before,  it  is  still  true.  If  you  are 
disappointed  in  your  ambition,  you  will  be  disappointed 
in  me.  You  may  never  blame  me,  but  you  will  be 
dissatisfied  with  me.  Here  is  a  splendid  chance  for 
you.  Richard,  take  my  advice,  and  arrange  for  this 
defence." 

He  did  not  trouble  to  argue ;   he  simply  said : — 

"My  dear,  you  don't  understand.  The  thing  is  im- 
possible! It  is  unprofessional." 

His  lips  shut  tightly,  and  from  long  experience  of 
his  moods  Gwendolen  felt  that  to  insist  further  would 
be  useless. 

"You  are  very  foolish,"  she  answered,  "very,  very 
foolish.  I  am  only  two  years  older  than  you,  and  yet 
I  am  afraid  it  will  be  ten  years  before  you  will  ever 
learn  as  much  worldly  wisdom  as  I  had  ten  years  ago." 

"Were  you  very  worldly-wise  at  twenty-two?" 

She  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  said : — 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  AINSLIE"  17 

"I  have  always  understood  that  the  art  of  life  lay 
in  getting  exactly  what  one  wanted." 

"Well,  I  shall  not  do  this,"  was  his  answer. 

"We  shall  see,"  she  replied. 

However,  he  smiled,  but  she  saw  that  he  was  not 
to  be  moved. 

"I  give  in,"  she  said  with  a  suddenness  surprising  to 
him,  for  in  most  things  she  had  hitherto  had  her  way, 
and  he  could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  found  her 
in  the  wrong.  She  put  her  hands  on  his  broad  shoul- 
ders— as  she  looked  at  the  face  of  the  man  she  loved. 
His  short  brown  hair  had  in  it  just  a  ripple  that  shone 
in  the  light.  It  grew  thickly  in  a  manner  indicative 
of  strength,  suggestive  of  vast  energy,  difficult  to 
disarrange,  fitting,  it  seemed,  tightly  to  his  temples, 
which  were  singularly  white.  She  gazed  in  admiration 
at  the  square-cut  forehead,  the  straight,  strong  eye- 
brows that,  when  he  frowned,  almost  met  over  his  clear 
blue  eyes,  the  firmly-cut  nose,  slender  and  slightly  too 
long,  with  nervous  nostrils.  Then,  from  her  point  of 
view,  the  face  deteriorated.  The  upper  lip  was  too 
long.  The  mouth  was  thin,  and  might  have  been 
regarded  as  almost  passionless — by  anyone  but  her. 
His  teeth  were  square  and  white.  And  the  chin — she 
had  admitted  that  she  hated  it.  She  had  accused  him 
of  having  an  old  chin  on  a  young  face,  and  he  could 
make  no  defence.  Having  completed  her  examination 
of  his  features,  she  put  up  her  lips  to  be  kissed. 

"You'll  be  a  wonderful  old  man — a  frightening  old 
man.  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  you  when  you're  an 
old  man." 

"I  must  risk  that,"  he  laughed. 

"But  the  main  point  is  that  you  will  love  me  always, 
as  you  do  now,  only  more,  won't  you?" 


18  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Yes,  always  and  always,  darling,"  he  answered  as 
he  moved  aside  a  sapphire  and  diamond  pendant  to 
kiss  her. 

The  doors  of  the  library  opened,  and  there  entered  a 
small,  lank  man  of  fifty,  with  thin  legs  that  shambled 
along  as  though  with  difficulty  supporting  the  weight 
of  the  rest  of  his  frame.  His  pale,  almost  yellow  face 
was  graven  with  deep  lines,  suggestive  of  ill-health; 
his  prominent,  straight  nose  was  almost  transparent; 
his  mouth  was  weak  without  being  sensitive;  he  had  a 
curious  habit  of  passing  his  tongue  rapidly  across  his 
lips,  like  a  ferret  licking  the  blood  of  slaughtered 
chickens.  Prematurely  bald,  tufts  of  grey  hair  grew 
upon  arid  places  on  his  head  and  in  his  ears.  He  had 
a  vague,  straggling,  grey  moustache.  Prominent  were 
his  black  eyes,  and  circled  by  reddish  rims ;  his  cheek- 
bones were  protuberant;  he  was  smoking  an  immense 
cigar.  He  wore  gold  spectacles. 

The  only  son  of  "Jake"  Ainslie,  sometime  Mayor 
of  Manchester  in  the  flourishing  forties,  he  had  been 
sent  to  Rugby  and  to  Oxford. 

"Jake,"  a  pioneer  in  many  things,  had  been  among 
the  first  of  the  north  country  cotton-spinners  to  grasp 
the  fact  that  the  elimination  of  a  Lancashire  accent 
was  not  fatal  to  companionable  qualities.  But  Wilfred 
at  Oxford — Wadham,  alas ! — had  not  shown  any  symp- 
toms of  parts  or  of  promise.  He  had  done  nothing. 
He  had  known  nobody. 

When — during  his  last  year  in  residence — his  father 
had  died,  leaving  him  an  income  of  £15,000  a  year, 
he  came  definitely  to  the  conclusion  that  London,  not 
Manchester,  was  the  capital  of  England.  London  was 
the  place  to  live  in.  His  innate  north  country  instinct 
had  led  him  to  believe  that  cotton-spinning  was  not 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  AINSLIE"  19 

the  most  secure  of  industries.  Therefore,  he  disposed 
of  the  business  on  admirable  terms  at  the  best  possible 
moment.  But  he  remained  in  touch  with  his  Manches- 
ter friends.  He  consulted  them,  not  one  or  two,  but 
five  or  six  or  seven,  as  to  his  investments.  They  gave 
him  their  best  advice,  for  his  father's  sake.  And  the 
best  advice  of  a  Manchester  man,  respected  in  Man- 
chester circles,  where  respect  is  hard  of  gaining,  is  the 
best  financial  advice  in  the  world.  As  a  result,  he  had 
for  many  years  enjoyed  an  income  of  from  eighteen 
to  twenty-eight  thousand  a  year. 

His  wife  he  chose  himself,  without  consulting  Man- 
chester. Being  rich  and  earnestly  ugly,  he  would  have 
made  an  ideal  husband  to  many  Manchester  girls. 

Manchester  never  forgave  him  his  marriage  with 
Gwendolen  Paxton-Pryce,  a  name  absolutely  unknown 
in  Manchester. 

With  a  movement  of  genial  hospitality  Mr.  Ainslie 
crossed  the  parquet  floor.  A  slight  slip  on  a  sliding 
rug  marred  the  effect  of  his  entrance. 

"Had  bad  luck,"  said  Wilfred,  "had  bad  luck ;  I've 
been  playing  bridge  whist  at  the  club  all  the  evening, 
and  made  precisely  £2  6*." 

A  burst  of  coughing  interrupted  him.  He  then 
succeeded  in  jerking  out,  "Very  good  of  you  to  take 
my  wife  to  the  theatre,  Richard — really  very  good  of 
you.  Fearful  waste  of  time!  You  ought  to  be  read- 
ing your  briefs,  you  know.  When  you're  my  age  you 
can  go  to  the  theatre  with  a  pretty  woman,  and  then, 
by  gad,  you  will  have  too  much  sense  to  do  it." 

Richard  said  good-night  to  the  husband  and  wife, 
and  went  out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  II 

A    HOME    IN    BAYSWATER 

HE  turned  out  into  the  street,  and  decided  to  walk 
home,  partly  from  economy,  which  had  long  been  'a 
natural  and  necessary  habit  of  his,  and  partly  because, 
tired  though  he  was,  he  felt  a  desire  to  draw  up  some 
sort  of  mental  balance-sheet  of  his  position. 

The  night  was  fine  under  a  dull  blue  sky.  Passing 
the  Marble  Arch  with  its  flaming  coffee-stall,  he  walked 
westward  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

In  spite  of  the  conditions  of  chronic  and  irritating 
impecuniosity  in  which  he  lived,  he  considered  that  his 
fortunes  were  taking  a  turn  for  the  better. 

His  time  was  fully  occupied  with  slightly-paid  work 
on  his  own  behalf,  and  gratuitous  work  on  behalf  of 
other  barristers.  But  his  practice  and  his  experience 
had  increased  considerably  during  the  last  four  years, 
and  he  felt  that  he  was  justified  in  believing  himself 
capable  of  conducting,  single-handed,  any  such  cases 
as  could  fall  to  the  lot  of  a  junior. 

His  knowledge  of  law  was  varied  and  sound.  He 
possessed  just  as  much  eloquence  as  is,  in  the  eyes  of 
an  English  jury,  compatible  with  candour  and  honesty 
of  purpose.  Hitherto  he  had  progressed  by  reason  of 
energy  and  perseverance — and  the  assistance  of  Mrs. 
Ainslie.  But  now  he  felt  that  his  career  was  ripe  for 
the  arrival  of  luck;  he  was  ready  for  luck;  its  advent 
would  not  find  him  unprepared  or  inefficient.  One 


21 

single  stroke  of  good  fortune,  and  he  might  walk  stead- 
fastly on  the  highroad  to  a  large  junior-practice  in 
the  King's  Bench  Division ;  after  that  might  follow  a 
silken  gown,  Parliament,  and,  perhaps,  a  great  career. 

These  were  hazardous  prospects.  He  had  no  assur- 
ance of  the  future.  But  in  the  present  he  possessed  an 
absorbing  delight — his  absolute  adoration  of  Gwen- 
dolen. 

Not  only  was  his  life  ordered  with  strict  method,  but 
until  he  had  met  Mrs.  Ainslie  he  had  firmly  believed 
that  his  heart  was  completely  under  control  of  his  sense 
of  expediency. 

He  had  up  till  then  considered  that,  to  conduct  his 
career  with  absolute  satisfaction  to  himself,  it  must 
be  the  work  of  his  own  hands  and  his  own  brain.  He 
had  wished  for  no  other  help. 

When  his  position  should  be  assured,  he  would 
marry;  until  such  time  he  would  regard  the  society  of 
women  as  a  distraction,  futile  at  best,  and — at  worst — 
disastrous. 

In  this  condition  of  mind  he  had  three  years  ago 
met  Mrs.  Ainslie,  a  woman  moving  in  a  phase  of  society 
to  which  he  was  a  stranger — a  woman  surrounded  by 
all  the  graces  and  refinements  of  wealth  that  exercise 
so  strong  a  fascination  over  a  poor  man. 

Almost  at  their  first  meeting  they  had  found  in 
each  other  the  natural  and  necessary  complement  of 
their  lives. 

For  three  years  there  had  been  no  disturbing  element 
in  their  affection.  Each  had  loved  the  other  with  com- 
plete surrender  and  complete  confidence.  In  all  mat- 
ters of  importance  she  was  delighted  to  find  that  he 
asked  her  advice,  and  it  was  a  source  of  great  pleasure 
to  him  that  her  advice  was  so  shrewd — containing,  as 


22  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

it  did,  a  soothing  flattery  of  himself,  and  a  spur  to 
effort  that  should  raise  him  still  higher  in  her  eyes. 

With  admirable  adroitness  she  contrived  to  bring 
his  name  to  the  notice  of  such  solicitors  as  she  met, 
and,  little  as  the  reflection  in  truth  pleased  him,  he 
understood  that  he  owed  to  her  a  very  considerable  por- 
tion of  the  moderate  success  which  he  had  hitherto 
attained. 

With  this  somewhat  slight  reservation,  he  was  com- 
pletely happy  in  his  love,  for  he  was  in  love  with  his 
best  friend. 

Taking  his  latchkey  out  of  his  pocket,  he  opened  a 
drab  door  in  Gloucester  Terrace,  which  is,  or  is  not, 
Bayswater,  according  as  you  live,  or  do  not  live,  there. 
The  tidy  poverty  of  his  home  struck  him  in  unpleas- 
ant contrast  to  the  picturesque  affluence  of  Green 
Street. 

He  went  up  to  his  room.  On  his  mantelpiece  he  found 
evidence  of  his  mother's  hands  in  the  rearrangement 
of  the  few  ornaments  and  the  note  that  she  never 
omitted  to  place  there  when  he  was  dining  out,  asking 
him,  in  case  of  his  leaving  the  house  early,  to  be  sure 
and  come  into  her  bedroom,  and  some  slight  message 
of  affection. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning  he  went  down 
to  her  bedroom.  The  old  lady  welcomed  him  with  a 
smile  and  a  look  of  pride  at  the  strong  form  and 
the  keen  eyes  of  a  man  in  perfect  health,  strenuous 
for  work. 

With  a  thin  hand  she  drew  his  head  down  to  kiss 
her  cheek.  It  was  a  beautiful  head  that  lay  on  the 
pillow,  a  head  with  its  clear-cut  but  somewhat  weak 
profile  and  high  forehead  suggestive  of  proud  mater- 
nity. Curtained  about  her  face  was  luxuriant  white 


A  HOME  IN  BAYSWATER  23 

hair.  The  hair  was  strong,  like  her  son's,  and  in  no 
sense  indicative  of  a  worn-out  frame. 

Fifty-eight  years  old,  she  made  no  struggle  against 
the  passage  of  time.  Though  of  an  age  when  many 
another  woman,  the  pseudo-woman  of  fashion,  for 
instance,  is  entering  into  her  second  girlhood,  Lady 
Meyville  did  not  attempt  to  combine  the  fictitious 
appearance  of  youth  with  the  genuine  signs  of  decay. 
The  art  of  being  a  graceful  old  lady  is  perhaps  the 
crowning  success  of  a  woman's  life. 

She  was  the  widow  of  Sir  Theodore  Clifton  Meyville, 
who  had  been  knighted  for  a  mistake  made  by  him  in 
Uganda.  Many  other  functionaries  of  the  Colonial 
Office  had  obtained  K.C.M.G.'s  for  mistakes  only 
slightly  graver  than  his.  A  disappointed  man,  he  died 
at  his  residence  in  Gloucester  Terrace,  Hyde  Park, 
and  left  behind  him  Montague  "Cliftonville,"  the  emi- 
nent actor,  Richard,  and  Ethel.  His  children  were 
endowed  with  a  considerable  share  of  those  good  looks 
which  had  enabled  their  father  to  reach  a  position 
totally  unfitted  to  his  absolute  incompetence.  His  life's 
work  left  his  widow  in  possession  of  an  income  of 
£250. 

She  asked  her  son  a  few  questions  about  his  engage- 
ment of  the  night  before.  He  answered,  not  altogether 
easily,  with  the  stereotyped  alibi  which  it  had  always 
been  his  practice  to  employ. 

He  had  dined,  he  said,  at  the  New  University  Club. 

His  frequent  attendance  at  this  institution  was  the 
only  point  at  which  his  mother  came  at  all  into  con- 
tact with  his  affection  for  Mrs.  Ainslie,  but  it  was  never 
without  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  that  Richard  repeated 
this  necessary  lie. 

After  a  pause  she  spoke. 


24  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Richard,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  something." 

The  hesitation  in  her  voice  showed  him  that  the  topic 
was  one  that  she  hated  to  broach,  and,  from  the  con- 
fidence in  which  the  two  lived,  he  knew  that  the  topic 
must  be  of  a  financial  nature. 

With  a  tender  smile,  he  patted  her  little  waxen  hand : 
"I  hope  it  is  not — very  much,  mother." 

"Well,  you  see,  the  fact  of  the  matter  is  this :  Ethel 
must  go  to  Court." 

"Good  heavens,  what  for?" 

He  was  astounded  at  so  extravagant  a  proposition 
from  so  evenly-balanced  a  woman. 

"That  is  not  your  own  idea." 

A  movement  of  her  lips  framed  an  affirmative  answer 
— framed  it  as  a  sort  of  ashamed  confession  of  weakness. 

"I  wish  you  would  only  act  on  your  own  ideas, 
mother.  They  are  always  better  than  other  people's." 

"No,  dear;  it  is  only  right  that  Ethel  should  be 
presented." 

"But,"  he  argued,  "we  do  not  move  in  Court  circles. 
We  are  living  in  Bayswater.  The  King  does  not 
require  Ethel's  presence  in  his  entourage" 

"But  it  gives  her  a  certain  position,"  persisted  Lady 
Meyville,  conscious  that  she  had  a  weak  case. 

"A  position  of  what  sort?"  he  asked.  "The  only 
position  it  gives  is  to  people  who  slip  through  the 
Lord  Chamberlain's  office  by  the  skin  of  their  teeth. 
If  there  is  something  against  you,  and  the  world  of 
fashion  knows  it,  I  daresay  a  presentation  is  a  sort  of 
verdict  of  'Not  Guilty.'  But  if  nothing  is  known  of 
you  at  all,  you  can  always  appear  at  Court.  Is  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  to  investigate  the  canards  and  scan- 
dals of  Tulse  Hill  and  Peckham  Rye  and  Ponder's 
End?" 


A  HOME  IN  BAYSWATER  25 

"I  knew  what  you  would  say,"  said  his  mother,  "but 
I  should  so  much  like  to  see  Ethel  in  a  drawing-room 
dress." 

"And  have  her  photographed  on  a  staircase  with 
a  view  of  Windsor  Castle  in  the  background,  and 
a  couple  of  columns  out  of  perspective  at  each  side! 
What  does  it  mean?"  he  repeated,  walking  about  the 
room.  "It  only  means  that  the  girl  is  not  notorious, 
and  that  the  parents  have  money  to  throw  away." 
And  then  he  said  shortly,  "Of  course,  it  is  merely  a 
question  of  money.  If  we  had  money,  or  if  I  had 
money,  you  could  do  what  you  liked.  We  always  get 
the  greatest  pleasure  out  of  our  least  sensible  wishes." 

"Never  mind,  dear,  I  daresay  you're  right,"  she 
answered,  as  though  closing  the  matter. 

"How  much  would  it  cost?"  he  asked,  prepared  to 
do  his  best. 

"It  could  not  be  done  for  less  than  thirty  guineas." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  is  impossible.  I  simply  haven't  got  the  money. 
Why  not  go  to  Montague?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  that  Montague  can  spare  it. 
He  is  so  generous.  I  see  by  The  Morning  Post," 
she  said,  "that  he  has  given  a  hundred  guineas  to  the 
Lord  Mayor's  Fund.  I  don't  think  that  we  could 
possibly  ask  Montague  for  it." 

With  a  feeling  of  irritation  tinged  with  contempt 
Richard  turned  away. 

"It  seems  strange  that  he  can  give  a  hundred 
guineas  to  a  charity,  and  cannot  afford  thirty  for  his 
own  sister." 

"But,"  she  pleaded,  "Montague  has  so  many  calls 
upon  him." 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know.    And  the  only  calls  he  answers 


26  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

are  those  that  are  advertised  in  the  newspapers.  The 
price  of  Ethel's  dress  will  not  appear  in  Green  Room 
Gossip." 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  that,"  she  cried,  always 
intolerant  of  any  comment  on  her  favourite  son. 
"You  know  Montague  is  working  very  hard  to  get  his 
knighthood,  and  his  last  two  pieces  have  not  been 
successes.  You  cannot  expect  him  to  do  any  more 
for  us." 

"Any  more  ?  What  has  he  ever  done  ?  He  gives  you 
tickets  for  his  theatre — when  his  piece  is  not  doing 
well.  But  you  can't  keep  your  house  going  on  free 
seats.  Of  course,  he  has  got  calls.  But,  then,  what 
does  he  want  to  play  Hamlet  for?" 

"My  dear,  you  cannot  expect  to  be  knighted  if  you 
have  not  played  Hamlet." 

"I  do  not  see  why  he  wants  to  be  knighted.  You've 
got  Braythorpe  blood  in  your  veins,  and  a  knighthood 
would  only  put  him  on  a  level  with  the  last  Lord 
Mayor  and  the  next  advertising  brewer.  Even  Hebrew 
financiers  jib  at  being  knighted  now."  Half-seriously 
he  added,  "The  ignominy  of  being  knighted  killed  my 
father." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  speak  like  that." 

"The  greatest  distinction  a  celebrated  actor  can  have 
is  to  be  officially  converted  into  a  nonentity." 

Conscious  though  the  mother  was  of  her  eldest  son's 
limitations,  yet  she  had  schooled  herself  to  believe  with 
the  public  that  all  shortcomings  possessed  by  actors 
are  evidences  of  what  is  called  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment. She  had  not  ignored  his  faults,  but  she 
regarded  them  as  part  of  his  personality  and  as  char- 
acteristics of  no  little  value  to  him  in  the  profession 
in  which  he  shone. 


A  HOME  IN  BAYSWATER  27 

Glaring  blemishes,  exhibited  by  him  in  his  capacity 
as  a  son,  she  minimised  as  being  the  natural  attributes, 
of  an  actor.  She  was  blinded,  in  a  certain  degree,  by 
the  glamour  of  praise  that  Montague  Cliftonville  wore 
as  a  halo  round  his  handsome  head. 

With  business-like  directness,  Richard,  his  hand  on 
his  watch,  said: — 

"It  is  out  of  the  question  for  me  to  provide  the 
money.  It  is  possible  that  Montague  can  do  it.  At 
any  rate,  it  is  right  that  he  should  have  the  privi- 
lege of " 

With  a  humorous  twinkle  in  her  eye,  Lady  Meyville 
supplied  the  word  "refusing." 

Richard  answered  as  he  moved  to  the  door,  "He  has 
no  business  to,  but  I  will  go  to  the  theatre  some  time 
to-day  and  give  him  the  chance." 

Then  quite  seriously  his  mother  interjected, 

"Oh,  please  do  not  say  anything  to  worry  him!" 

After  breakfast  Richard  went  off  to  the  Temple. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    PALL    MALL    THEATRE 

AT  four  o'clock  Richard  was  in  his  chambers  at 
Essex  Court,  having  completed  a  short  and  unre- 
munerative  day's  work. 

There  were  no  consultations  fixed  for  that  afternoon, 
so  he  decided  to  go  to  the  Pall  Mall  Theatre  and  see 
his  brother.  As  it  was  Wednesday,  he  knew  there 
would  be  a  matinee. 

While  walking  westwards  along  the  Strand  he  over- 
took Sir  James  Tufnell,  the  popular  hanging  judge. 
Immensely  tall,  with  a  striding  gait  and  wearing  an 
habitual  and  almost  lethal  frown,  Sir  James's  was  an 
unmistakable  figure.  To  his  great  pleasure,  Richard 
heard  his  name  pronounced  by  the  judge,  who  took 
his  arm.  He  complimented  the  young  man  on  his 
"success,"  and  complained  bitterly  of  the  decadence  of 
the  Bar  since  his  day.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  many 
judges  have  noticed  that  the  total  absence  of  ability 
in  the  Bar  (which  no  one  deplores  more  than  they) 
synchronises  with  their  own  elevation  to  the  Bench. 

"By  the  bye,  a  charming  woman  was  talking  to  me 
about  you  the  other  night.  She  says  you're  the  com- 
ing man.  How  the  devil  does  she  know,  eh?" 

"Who  was  she,  Sir  James?" 

"A  Mrs.  Ainslie,  a  beautiful  woman  with  the  profile 
that  the  American  man,  Gibson,  invented.  Is  she  an 
American  ?" 


THE  PALL  MALL  THEATRE  29 

"X'o.  But  all  women  who  are  handsome  are  sup- 
posed to  be  American,  in  the  same  way  that  all  men 
who  are  successful  are  said  to  have  Jewish  blood  in 
their  veins." 

Sir  James's  features  relaxed  into  a  grim  stare,  the 
nearest  approach  to  a  smile  of  which  they  were  capable. 

"That's  right,  Meyville.  Be  admired  by  beauty. 
Do  not  admire  it  too  much,  and  you  will  go  far.  Now 
I  shall  take  a  hansom,  and  I  will  drive  you  to  the 
Carlton." 

Richard  was  very  pleased  at  being  asked  to  drive 
with  the  judge. 

"I'm  not  going  to  the  Athenaeum,"  Sir  James  said, 
when  they  were  in  the  cab.  "I  can't  stand  it.  I  went 
into  the  card-room  the  other  day,  and  it  was  like  a 
cripples'  home — nothing  but  octogenarians  on  scaf- 
folding. Also,  they  are  going  to  construct  a  special 
lift  for  invalid  chairs.  Would  you  stand  it?  Xo." 

It  was  a  habit  of  his  to  ask  violent  questions  and 
supply  indignant  answers. 

"Listen,"  he  suddenly  said,  assuming  his  usual  "The 
sentence  of  the  court  is  ..."  frown.  "Never  give 
advice.  Numskulls  at  all  hours  of  the  day  put  absurd 
propositions  to  lawyers.  Send  all  numskulls  to  the 
devil.  Only  last  night,  at  a  dinner-party,  a  dolt  bored 
me  for  an  hour  by  giving  me  the  history  of  an  impos- 
sible legal  complication.  I  told  him  my  opinion.  And 
then  the  dolt  said  he  would  consult  his  lawyer!  Law- 
yer! If  you  met  a  surgeon  at  dinner,  would  you  ask 
him  then  and  there  to  operate  for  appendicitis? 
Damned  if  you  would." 

The  sinister  old  man  prattled  on.  But  for  his  ex- 
traordinary fondness  for  depopulation,  he  would  have 
been  a  very  pleasant  companion. 


SO  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"There's  another  numskull,"  said  he,  as  they  passed 
the  Charing  Cross  Theatre.  "That  actor  objects  to 
his  theatre  being  called  a  place  of  business.  The  case 
came  before  me.  Good  heavens, what  are  the  actors  com- 
ing to?  Clowning  is  an  art,  and,  also,  a  profession !  It 
can't  be  both.  I  suppose  they'll  call  it  a  religion  next. 
Another  fellow — quite  the  best  of  'em,  too — produced 
Julius  Ccesar.  Not  content  with  that,  he  adorned  Lon- 
don with  an  advertisement  of  a  Roman  coin  bearing 
the  date  B.C.  45.  Do  you  suppose  the  Roman  mint 
knew  of  the  coming  of  Christ  and  dated  this  coin 
accordingly?  I  doubt  it.  By  the  bye,  your  brother 
is  a  mountebank  of  some  sort,  isn't  he?" 

"My  brother  is  Montague  Cliftonville." 

"Cut  him  off  with  a  shilling.  Your  name's  not 
good  enough  for  him.  Good  enough  for  a  barrister, 
not  good  enough  for  a  barn-stormer !  Is  that  sense? 
Far  from  it." 

"He  doesn't  act  in  a  barn,"  laughed  Richard.  "He's 
just  taken  the  lease  of  a  new " 

"Yes,  I  know,  a  huge  Byzantine  barn,  confound  him ! 
Actors  are  like  burglars:  they  always  change  their 
names  for  business  purposes.  Do  they  or  do  they  not? 
Of  course  they  do." 

"It's  very  fortunate  that  some  people  change  their 
names." 

"Fortunate?     Why?" 

"Otherwise  everybody  would  be  called  Adam,  which 
would  be  confusing." 

"That's  no  excuse,"  grunted  the  judge. 

"You're  very  down  on  the  stage,  Sir  James." 

"Didn't  you  know  that  I  married  an  actress?  Thank 
God,  I've  been  a  widower  for  forty  years,  but  I  haven't 
got  over  it  yet." 


THE  PALL  MALL  THEATRE  81 

Richard  made  no  defence.  He  knew  that  the  judge 
had  been  unhappy  in  his  married  life. 

From  his  knowledge  of  actors  he  found  it  difficult 
to  make  a  convincing  defence  of  the  stage.  He  knew 
that  the  stage  was  the  Cinderella  of  the  arts.  He 
knew  that  whenever  things  were  slack  in  the  jour- 
nalistic world  an  attack  would  be  made  on  the  stage. 
His  position  in  discussing  things  theatrical  was  ren- 
dered the  more  difficult  owing  to  the  conspicuous  and 
notorious  vanity  of  his  brother.  He  had  never  been 
able  to  conceal  from  himself  the  fact  that  Montague 
Cliftonville  had  made  a  sort  of  corner  in  vanity.  But 
Montague  had  introduced  him  to  many  actors  who  were 
men  of  the  world,  and  who,  in  the  society  of  men  of 
the  world,  shone  by  reason  of  their  ripe  judgment  and 
shrewd  intelligence.  He  appreciated,  as  perhaps  few 
people  did  appreciate,  the  struggle  that  had  been  made 
by  the  superior  class  of  actor  to  shake  off  the  grotesque 
glamour  of  ridiculous  publicity  which  surrounded  the 
heads  of  certain  charlatans  of  the  stage.  The  earnest 
actor,  the  brilliant  actor,  the  actor  deserving  of  sup- 
port from  the  artistically-minded,  did  not  write  gro- 
tesque letters  to  the  papers;  he  did  not  lend  himself 
to  advertisements  of  washes  for  the  mouth  or  restorers 
for  the  hair.  He  was  every  bit  as  much  an  artist  in 
his  profession  as  was  a  Royal  Academician  or  a  King's 
Counsel.  The  Barnum  element  introduced  within  the 
last  few  years  had  brought  contempt  on  an  honour- 
able profession  struggling  for  recognition.  But  if  an 
artist  turned  his  body  into  a  hoarding  for  the  adver- 
tisement either  of  himself  or  of  a  patent  medicine,  he 
ceased  to  be  an  artist. 

Montague  was  a  human  hoarding. 

"Sir  James,"  he  said,  "in  everybody  who  makes  a 


82  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

success  in  life,  from  Cassar  to  Napoleon  and — may  I 
say  it? — you,  there  is  always  something  theatrical  in 
the  temperament.  Unless  you  play  to  the  gallery,  the 
gallery  will  never  realise  that  you  are  playing." 

Sir  James  threw  a  quick  glance  at  him. 

"And  you  are  looking  out  for  a  gallery,  are  you? 
Of  course  you  are.  And  I  hope  you'll  find  it." 

They  alighted  at  the  Carlton  Club.  Sir  James 
handed  the  cabman  a  shilling. 

"  'Ere,  what's  this  for?" 

The  judge  raised  his  head  and  glowered  at  the  man's 
face. 

"Beg  pardon,  mi  Lord." 

He  drove  away. 

"That  fellow's  been  in  trouble.  Everybody  who's 
been  in  trouble  knows  me." 

With  his  hand  in  Richard's  arm,  Sir  James  walked 
up  the  steps.  A  middle-aged  man  of  semi-Semitic 
appearance,  in  a  tweed  suit  with  a  huge  button-hole, 
brushed  past  him. 

"Who's  that?"  he  asked  severely  of  the  commis- 
sionaire. 

"Mr.  Fludyer-Seaton,  Sir  James." 

"The  Member?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Turning  to  Richard,  he  said: 

"I  believe  that  all  our  biggest  criminals  who  are 
not  in  gaol  are  in  Parliament.  If  only  these  modern 
financiers  had  a  trades  union  they  could  pass  a  Bill 
abolishing  the  criminal  law.  And  that  fellow  is  a  mem- 
ber of  my  club !  Thirty  years  ago  I  was  the  only 
bounder  in  the  place.  Now  the  club  is  full  of  'em. 
Good  day  to  you." 

Sir  James  disappeared  through  the  doors,  and  Rich- 


THE  PALL  MALL  THEATRE  33 

ard  crossed  the  street  to  M*.  Cliftonville's  superb 
Byzantine  Temple  of  Drama. 

On  reaching  the  stage  door  he  found  his  way  blocked 
by  a  singularly  handsome  actor,  who  appeared  only 
in  the  last  act  of  the  play,  and  was  asking  for  his 
letters. 

He  received  an  envelope  addressed  in  a  female  hand- 
writing, which  Richard  unconsciously  noticed. 

Mr.  Marradyne  (for  it  was  indeed  he)  opened  it 
carelessly,  and  then  said  with  sorrow  that  had  in  it 
almost  a  note  of  holy  sadness,  "Oh,  these  little  women ! 
What  can  one  do  with  them,  Judkins?  They  take  the 
life  out  of  a  fellow,"  and  he  moved  on  with  his  billet- 
doux.  He  possessed  sufficient  culture  to  employ  the 
word  billet-doux. 

On  Richard  asking  whether  he  could  see  Mr.  Clifton- 
ville,  a  wizened  face  appeared  from  a  rabbit-hutch-like 
opening,  took  stock  of  the  new-comer,  and  demanded: 

"Have  you  an  appointment?" 

"No." 

It  appeared  that  a  new  custodian,  who  knew  not 
Richard,  had  been  installed  in  the  place  of  the  white- 
bearded  veteran  to  whom  he  was  accustomed. 

"Then  it  is  impossible  to  see  him — absolutely  impos- 
sible to  see  him,"  repeated  the  crumpled  little  man  with 
all  the  pomposity  of  a  War  Office  official  intent  on 
impeding  the  business  of  the  country. 

The  quaint  self-importance  of  the  stage-doorkeeper 
amused  Richard. 

"You  mean  to  say  that  it  is  beyond  human  power 
for  me  to  see  the  manager?" 

"Absolutely.    It  can't  be  done." 

"But  supposing  it  were  a  matter  of  importance; 
supposing  that  I  had  got  a  play  with  me?" 


34,  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

The  stage-doorkeeper  held  up  his  hands  in  horror. 

"Mr.  Cliftonville's  literary  adviser  is  now  in 
America." 

"And  in  the  absence  of  his  literary  adviser  he  is 
completely  stranded,  as  it  were?  Is  that  it?" 

"If  you  have  got  your  play  with  you,  you  can  leave 
it  here,"  he  answered  brusquely. 

"No,  I  have  not  got  a  play  with  me.  I  was  only 
putting  a  case  to  you.  But  I  am  very  anxious  to  see 
Mr.  Cliftonville." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  it  couldn't  be  done,  not  without 
an  appointment?  The  thing  can't  be  done." 

"But  supposing  it  were  a  matter  of  life  and  death?" 

"You  would  have  to  make  an  appointment  all  the 
same,"  answered  the  stage-doorkeeper  wearily. 

"Would  it  be  any  good  taking  up  my  card?" 

"Not  the  slightest;  not  the  slightest.  If  you  want 
a  job  you  must  'write  in,'  the  same  as  everybody  else." 

The  clean-shaven  face  of  his  interrogator  had  con- 
vinced the  little  man  that  he  was  an  actor  in  search  of 
employment. 

"Would  you  mind  looking  at  my  card  first,  and  then 
you  can  decide  whether  to  send  it  up  or  not?" 

"Oh,  I'll  look  at  your  card  right  enough;  but  it 
ain't  no  good,  believe  me." 

Richard  gave  him  a  card,  on  which  was  printed, 
"Mr.  Richard  Meyville,  10  Essex  Court,  Temple." 

The  stage-doorkeeper  scanned  it  and  said,  almost 
respectfully,  "I  thought  you  was  a  literary  gent  from 
the  first.  What  do  you  want — pars  or  an  interview? 
What  is  the  name  of  your  paper?" 

"Would  you  mind  taking  that  card  up,  or  sending 
it  up,  or  employing  Mr.  Cliftonville's  dresser's  assist- 
ant to  undertake  the  office?" 


THE  PALL  MALL  THEATRE  85 

After  a  considerable  number  of  formalities  the  card 
was  despatched;  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  stage-door- 
keeper's ear  was  struck  by  a  shout : 

"  'Ere,  send  the  Guv'nor's  brother  up,  and  look 
sharp  about  it." 

As  Richard  was  disappearing  through  the  white- 
washed passages,  the  little  man  muttered  to  himself: 

"That's  the  first  decent-looking  relation  I  ever  saw 
a  first-class  actor  have!  Lor!  I  thought  he  was  an 
actor  himself  at  first.  I  wish  all  these  relations  wouldn't 
change  their  names." 

Richard  was  shown  into  the  ante-room  of  the  popu- 
lar actor's  dressing-room.  With  a  pleasing  fantasy 
it  had  been  furnished  like  a  Japanese  tea-house. 

After  an  interval  of  two  or  three  minutes  a  delicate 
vision  of  pink  and  silver  entered  the  room. 

Of  all  the  parts  that  Montague  had  ever  played, 
in  no  one  had  he  taken  such  pleasure  as  in  the  charac- 
ter of  Charles  Stuart,  the  young  Pretender.  He  had 
never  looked  so  superb,  so  graceful,  or,  incidentally,  so 
manly. 

As  the  brothers  stood  face  to  face,  the  actor 
appeared  a  glorified  edition  of  the  lawyer,  a  fact  of 
which  he  was  pleasantly  conscious. 

"A  good  make-up,  isn't  it?"  said  he;  with  a  lace- 
ruffled  hand  he  waved  courteously  to  Richard. 

As  he  approached  him,  the  unbecoming  light  of  day 
which  shone  through  the  windows  dispelled  the  illusion, 
and,  in  his  brother's  eyes,  the  famous  actor  with  his 
frescoed  face  instantly  became  of  the  kindred  of  those 
mountebanks  who  disport  themselves  at  country  fairs. 

"I  have  only  got  a  minute,  Dick,  old  boy.  What 
can  I  do  for  you,  eh?"  he  said,  with  a  hearty  breeziness 
that  he  always  assumed  in  the  presence  of  men. 


36  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Oh,  you  hare  got  plenty  of  time  for  what  I  want; 
it  is  only  a  cheque  for  £30." 

"What,  for  some  Barristers'  Benevolent  Fund,  eh? 
That  is  a  good  idea — a  good  idea,"  he  said  reflectively. 
"The  Bar  and  the  Stage  is  a  more  natural  union  than 
the  union  of  the  Church  and  the.  Stage.  It's  the  same 
line  of  Art,  eh? — the  same  line  of  Art.  I  was  telling 
the  Solicitor-General  the  other  day  that  he  would  have 
made  quite  a  decent  actor  but  for  his  brogue." 

The  egoism  of  the  man  was  so  sincere  that  it  was 
scarcely  ludicrous. 

"No,"  said  Richard,  "it  is  not  for  that." 

And  then  he  explained  the  purpose  for  which  the 
money  was  required. 

Montague  strolled  to  the  mantelpiece  and  assumed  a 
semi-Shakespearean  attitude. 

There  were  moments  when  his  pose  seemed  delib- 
erately to  suggest  "The  Bard,"  over  whom  he  had  lost 
so  much  of  other  people's  money.  He  deliberately 
turned  his  profile  to  his  brother.  Indeed,  in  refusing 
favours  it  had  always  been  his  practice  to  give,  in 
the  alternative,  a  certain  slight  dividend  of  perfect 
beauty. 

To  actors  applying  for  parts,  to  dramatists  impor- 
tunate for  a  hearing,  to  private  applications  for 
trifling  loans,  he  never  refused — his  profile. 

His  brother  watched  him  curiously. 

"Mother  is  very  anxious  for  the  money." 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  I  am  sure  of  it.  But  why 
should  I  be  worried?  Can't  you  understand  when  one 
is  playing  a  part,  eh — when  one  is  soul-engrossed — 
soul-engrossed  is  the  right  phrase — one  cannot  be 
bothered  in  this  way?" 

"Of  course,  if  you're  hard  up " 


THE  PALL  MALL  THEATRE  87 

The  actor  turned  at  the  words,  and  resented  them. 

"Of  course,  I  am  not  hard  up;  but  my  expenses  are 
so  great.  Now  you  haven't  got  any  expenses ;  why 
don't  you  do  it?" 

"My  dear  Montague,  I  can't  afford  to  have  expenses. 
All  the  money  I  get  goes  directly  it  comes,  auto- 
matically." 

He  did  not  explain  that  the  bulk  of  it  went  to 
Gloucester  Terrace. 

The  assistant  stage-manager  entered  the  room 
reverently,  and  said: 

"Mr.  Cliftonville,  third  act,  please." 

"Well,  I  will  see  what  I  can  do.  I  will  send  for  my 
financial  adviser,  and  let  you  know  after  the  act.  You 
wait  here,  or,  rather,  I  will  take  you  into  Marradyne's 
dressing-room,  and  introduce  you  to  him.  You  will 
like  him ;  he  is  a  wonderfully  handsome  fellow.  He 
will  understudy  me  in  the  next  piece,  but  he  doesn't 
know  how  to  wear  his  clothes.  Tell  me  what  you  think 
of  him." 

Montague  spoke  as  though  the  whole  art  of  acting 
consisted  in  the  ability  to  wear  clothes. 

In  the  dressing-room  Richard  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  handsome  young  man  who  suffered  from  women, 
and  a  younger  actor  who  envied  his  occasions  for  suf- 
fering. 

Marradyne  welcomed  him  heartily  and  with  great 
courtesy.  He  was  making-up,  and  suggested  that  the 
visitor  should  watch  the  process  carefully. 

While  doing  so,  Richard  caught  sight  of  the  alleged 
letter  from  the  fair  admirer  lying  on  the  table ;  the 
handwriting  was  not  to  be  mistaken,  and  the  billet- 
doux  ran  thus: — 


38  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Messrs.  Rowl  and  Berkeley,  American  Tailors. 

To  one  gent's  lounge  suit £3     3     0 

To  one  gent's  fancy  vest 8     6 

£3  11     6 

Having  completed  the  work  of  Art,  the  actor  turned 
round  and  said,  "A  blessing  for  me  that  I  hardly  have 
to  make-up  at  all!  Some  of  the  actors  who  make-up 
handsome  have  really  got  faces  like  a  sheet  of  paper. 
They  can  paint  anything  on  it,  but  it  takes  'em  hours 
to  do  the  painting;  still,  it  is  an  advantage  in  one 
way,  because,  do  what  I  will,  I  can't  disguise  myself. 
You  would  know  me  anywhere.  It  is  a  nuisance,"  he 
added,  with  an  air  of  intense  anguish;  "I  shall  never 
be  able  to  play  anything  but  Romeo  parts." 

The  specialty  of  the  other  actor  consisted  in  coarse 
language.  He  punctuated  his  conversation  with  un- 
necessary adjectives  and  impossible  adverbs,  in  the 
same  way  that  a  halting  barrister  interjects  "Gentle- 
men of  the  jury"  in  his  speeches. 

Marradyne  was  evidently  anxious  to  impress  the 
manager's  brother.  He  said: 

"I  don't  know  if  you  have  ever  noticed  that  duchesses 
always  wear  linen  petticoats?" 

"Really?  You  interest  me.  enormously !  Is  that  a 
fact?" 

The  younger  actor  gazed  with  open-eyed  envy. 

"Is  that  a  fact,  really?"  Richard  repeated.  "Do 
you  know  it  of  your  own  knowledge,  or  has  a  Blue 
Book  been  issued  on  the  subject?" 

There  was  something  in  his  tone  that  was  not  pleas- 
ing to  Mr.  Marradyne. 

"Perhaps  you  do  not  move  very  much  in  the  society 
of  duchesses,"  he  shot  out. 


THE  PALL  MALL  THEATRE  39 

"Personally,  I  only  know  duchesses  as  I  know  the 
Red  Sea — by  reputation." 

"I  thought  I  had  never  seen  you  about  anywhere. 
You  ought  to  go  to  some  smart  'At  Homes.'  Then 
you'd  know." 

Richard  was  amused  at  the  calibre  of  mind  so 
proudly  exhibited  by  this  peculiar  young  man.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  actors  possessed  all  the  failings 
of  women,  in  addition  to  the  more  contemptible  de- 
fects of  men,  and  attained  a  social  tone  denied  to 
either. 

On  those  few  occasions  when  he  had  mingled  in  the 
intimate  life  of  the  theatre  it  had  struck  him  as  one 
intolerable  for  any  man  with  the  instincts  of  a  gen- 
tleman ;  it  did  not  appear  to  him  at  all  heroic  that 
his  brother  should  have  risen  from  the  ranks  of  such 
strange  people  to  that  position  in  which  he  took  such 
great  pleasure  and  pride. 

He  tried  to  maintain  an  intelligent  conversation  with 
Marradyne  and  the  other  until  such  time  as  Montague 
should  be  free,  but  he  found  that  when  these  two  were 
not  talking  about  themselves,  their  agony  was  almost 
physical. 

He  tried  them  with  kindred  arts,  with  painting,  with 
music,  and  with  sculpture ;  but  it  was  of  no  avail. 
Conversation  came  to  a  deadlock. 

He  took  a  bold  course.  He  patted  Marradyne  on 
the  back.  Said  he: 

"When  are  we  going  to  see  you  in  management?" 

The  move  was  a  success. 

The  actor's  eyes  sparkled. 

"Well,  old  chap,  I  would  go  into  management  to- 
morrow if  I  could  get  a  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  modern 
life.  But  we  have  no  dramatists  who  understand  the 


40  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

actor.  All  they  understand  is  the  public.  What  do 
they  know  about  Art?  By  Art,  the  actor  reveals  him- 
self; but  he  can't  do  it  unless  the  dramatists  help  him. 
If  I  want  a  coat,  I  don't  go  to  a  ready-made  shop. 
I  go  to  Poole,  and  I  say,  'Poole,  my  boy,  here  am  I, 
Vivian  Marradyne.  You  know  me.  I  know  you. 
Make  me  a  frock-coat  that  fits  me  like  a  glove.'  And 
Poole  does  it  every  time.  That  is  where  tailors  are 
so  superior  to  dramatists.  The  tailor  gives  you  what 
you  want,  and  you  supply  the  Art  of  wearing  it. 
Isn't  that  true,  old  boy?" 

"Yes ;   it  is  a  great  thought,  finely  expressed." 

"You  are  quite  sure  you  took  my  meaning?"  asked 
the  actor. 

At  this  moment  Montague's  valet  summoned  Rich- 
ard. 

As  he  was  leaving,  the  younger  actor  stopped  him 
at  the  door. 

"I  should  be  awfully  obliged  if  you  would  tell  me 
what  the  Governor  really  thinks  of  me  in  this  piece. 
He's  said  a  lot  of  awfully  nice  things  to  fashionable 
people,  friends  of  mine,  about  me,  but  perhaps  he  would 
tell  you  what  he  really  thinks." 

Richard,  amused,  answered: 

"My  brother  and  I  never  talk  about  theatrical  mat- 
ters. I  don't  understand  them." 

But  the  other  persisted. 

"You  might  just  crab  my  scene.  It's  the  prison 
scene.  I'm  the  jailer.  You  might  just  say,  'Harry 
Coverdale  seems  to  have  fallen  off  a  bit  since  he  played 
fourth  Roman  citizen  with  Wilson  Barrett.'  You  might 
say  that." 

"I  should  very  much  like  to  say  that.  Nothing 
would  please  me  more;  but  I  never  saw  you  play  any 


THE  PALL  MALL  THEATRE  41 

sort  of  citizen  with  Wilson  Barrett.  I  never  saw  Wil- 
son Barrett.  I  know  there  was  such  an  institution. 
He  was  the  actor  who  made  a  corner  in  the  Gospels, 
wasn't  he?  Or  was  it  Little  Arthur's  History  of 
England?" 

"Oh,  I  thought  everyone  had  seen  me!  Fourth 
Roman  citizen  was  my  best  part.  Anyhow,  you  might 
say  that,  you  see,  and  then  he  would  give  you  his  real 
opinion.  Mind  you,  even  if  he  said  that  my  'Jailer*  is 
not  as  perfect  as  my  'Fourth  Citken,'  I  shouldn't  be 
cut  up.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  should  know  that  it's 
the  badness  of  the  part.  Because,  all  things  con- 
sidered, this  is  the  most  perfect  thing  I've  ever  done. 
And  an  artist  naturally  feels  it  when  he  is  doing  his 
best  work." 

"My  brother,"  answered  Richard,  "is  so  aware  how 
ignorant  I  am  of  the  theatre  that  an  exhaustive  crit- 
icism on  the  respective  merits  of  your  'Jailer'  and  your 
'Citizen'  would  be  wasted  on  him." 

As  he  left  the  room,  Marradyne  said  to  his  friend: 

"Devilish  conceited  fellow  that,  eh?" 

And  the  other  entirely  agreed  with  him. 

"Outside  the  profession,"  said  he,  "people  are  so 
narrow-minded." 

"Except,  of  course,  in  Society,"  answered  the  beloved 
of  women. 

Montague  received  his  brother  in  his  dressing-room. 
At  that  moment  he  was  examining  a  speech  written  by 
his  oratorical  adviser  to  be  spoken  next  day  at  the 
meeting  of  the  Actors'  Benevolent  Fund.  It  contained 
beautiful  thoughts,  beautifully  expressed,  to  be  deliv- 
ered by  a  beautiful  man. 

"Good  God,"  he  said,  "that  will  fetch  'em.  But 
you  haven't  brought  in  the  Greek  quotation  I  wanted. 


42  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

At  any  rate,  see  that  it  is  handed  to  my  press-agent 
so  that  it  gets  to  the  evening  papers  in  time." 

The  man  bowed  and  withdrew,  while  the  financial 
adviser  whispered  to  the  principal. 

Of  all  the  advisers  that  Mr.  Cliftonville  found  it 
necessary  to  employ,  the  financial  adviser  produced  on 
the  spectator  the  least  suggestion  of  sound  financial 
status — perhaps  because,  before  obtaining  his  present 
exalted  position,  he  had  been  a  somewhat  unsuccessful 
broker's  man. 

When  the  brothers  were  left  alone,  Richard  found 
himself  facing  the  profile.  He  knew  the  worst.  He 
lost  his  temper. 

"Good  heavens !"  he  said,  "can  you  do  nothing  with- 
out advisers?  You  are  being  ruined  by  advice.  I 
believe  you  expressly  charter  incompetent  people  in 
order  to  recommend  the  wrong  thing.  If  a  man  is  a 
man,  he  can  sometimes  take  the  initiative  himself. 
Your  instinct  must  have  told  you  that  your  last  four 
plays  would  never  succeed,  and  your  stage-doorkeeper 
is  an  imbecile.  You  are  surrounded  by  broken  pegs  in 
crumbling  holes." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  actor,  surprised. 
"This  is  the  greatest  triumph  that  I  have  ever 
had." 

"You  are  on  the  stage  longer  than  you  have  ever 
been,  if  you  mean  that.  But  the  play  can't  run.  And 
you  know  it.  If  you  could  be  content  to  play  parts 
you're  fitted  for,  you  would  be  making  a  lot  of  money. 
As  it  is,  you're  making  straight  for  the  Bankruptcy 
Court." 

The  manager  murmured  something  about  Art. 

"Oh,  nonsense;  don't  talk  to  me  about  Art.  Art 
is  only  another  name  for  advertisement.  Let's  come  to 


THE  PALL  MALL  THEATRE  43 

the  point.  Mother  wants  £30,  and  you  have  gone 
through  some  idiotic  formalities  with  your  financial 
adviser.  I  suppose  you've  consulted  him  about  a 
family  matter,  and  he  has  advised  you  not  to 
give  the  money  to  your  mother.  Has  he,  or  has  he 
not?" 

"I'm  not  accustomed  to  being  spoken  to  like  this." 

The  actor  shrank  under  the  indignation  of  his 
brother. 

He  stammered  something  about  it  being  awkward—- 
at any  other  time — and  so  on. 

He  felt  that  there  were  words  which  would  effectually 
wipe  out  the  affront,  but  the  words  had  not  been  writ- 
ten for  him  by  his  oratorical  adviser,  and  they  were 
therefore  not  forthcoming. 

Richard  insisted. 

"Write  out  the  cheque." 

"I  can't  now,"  he  said;  "my  secretary  has  my 
cheque-book." 

"Great  Scott!"  roared  Richard,  "you  have  enough 
formalities  in  this  place  to  supply  a  Government 
office." 

In  a  great  flutter,  the  other  exclaimed: 

"All  matters  of  mere  detail  must  be  kept  out  of  the 
artist's  life." 

Pleased  with  the  thought,  he  repeated  it. 

"But  to-morrow,"  he  added,  "I  will  send  off  the 
cheque." 

His  dresser  entered  the  room. 

"Good-bye,  Richard.  I  have  only  kept  you  waiting 
about  in  order  to  be  sure  that  the  money  was  really 
necessary.  God  bless  you,  my  boy,"  he  said,  conclud- 
ing the  interview  with  a  wonderfully  simulated  affecta- 
tion of  almost  nautical  heartiness. 


44  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Mr.  Cliftonville  was  always  a  gentleman  on  the 
stage,  and  an  actor  off  it. 

From  the  words  that  he  had  overheard  the  dresser 
circulated  the  report  that  Mr.  Cliftonville  suffered 
from  an  impecunious  brother,  to  whom  he  behaved  with 
great  liberality. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  MOTHERS'  MEETING 

LADY  MEYVILLE  was  "At  Home"  on  the  first  and 
second  Thursday  in  the  month. 

To-day,  in  the  drawing-room,  were  three  ladies,  the 
most  assiduous  visitors  at  these  afternoons. 

Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce,  the  mother  of  Gwendolen,  was 
a  massive,  fair  woman,  with  a  face  like  a  dissipated 
potato. 

Of  the  same  age  as  her  hostess,  she  affected  airs  of 
incredible  youth.  Though  dressed  in  an  outre  style, 
she  had  specialised  in  morality,  and  was  regarded  in 
her  circle  as  an  expert — a  censorious  expert — in  the 
wickedness  of  Semi-Society,  an  environment  to  which 
she  was,  indeed,  a  complete  stranger.  The  fact  that  a 
second  cousin  of  hers  had  once  figured  in  the  Divorce 
Court,  as  a  sort  of  honorary  co-respondent,  had  estab- 
lished her  moral  position  in  Bayswater.  As  the  mother 
of  "the  beautiful  Mrs.  Ainslie,"  she  was  considered  the 
leading  "Society"  woman  in  the  suburb.  Incidentally, 
too,  she  was  regarded  as  an  authority  on  the  human 
interior,  chiefly  by  reason  of  the  notoriously  faulty 
digestive  apparatus  of  her  son-in-law,  Mr.  Ainslie. 

Mrs.  Bolitho,  in  her  particular  clique,  represented 
Society  in  its  higher  form.  Her  generally  acknowl- 
edged claim  was  based  on  the  fact  that  she  had  once 
shaken  hands  at  a  Charity  Bazaar  with  the  Princess 
of  Salmon  von  Gluckstein.  This  chance  meeting  had 


46  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

altered  the  entire  course  of  her  life;  she  had,  as  it 
were,  amalgamated  the  Princess  with  herself. 

She  had  ceased  to  have  opinions ;  but  her  conversa- 
tion expressed  those  of  the  dear  Princess.  She  could 
hold  her  own  in  those  cosy  chats  about  confinements, 
which  are  so  popular  at  Bayswater  and  Surbiton  tea- 
tables.  Her  figure  resembled  an  old-fashioned  pen- 
wiper, and  her  character  was  beyond  reproach.  She 
was  not  a  beautiful  woman.  Neither,  indeed,  was  Mrs. 
Pegram. 

This  lady  was  the  wife  of  a  small  manufacturer  of 
chocolate-boxes  (a  decaying  industry  in  this  country), 
and  she  lived  at  Smelhurst,  an  undesirable  and  almost 
inaccessible  township  on  the  South  Eastern  Railway. 
An  angular  woman,  with  a  predatory  nose,  an  unfor- 
tunate colour  scheme,  and  dank  hair.  She  possessed 
a  taste  in  clothes  that  would  surely  make  the  angels 
weep.  The  colours  of  her  dress  suggested  a  rainbow 
that  had  gone  mad. 

She  was  the  most  regular  of  the  attendants  at  Lady 
Meyville's  "At  Homes."  Every  Thursday  being  rem- 
nant day  at  Whiteley's,  it  was  convenient  for  her  to 
drop  into  Gloucester  Terrace,  after  a  piratical  raid  on 
the  bargain-counters.  She  had  a  very  keen  instinct 
for  the  impossible,  and  scraps  of  ribbon  and  silk  that 
were  too  glaring  for  Ashanti  envoys  or  Zulu  women 
were  eagerly  snapped  up  and  despatched  to  Smelhurst. 

To  these  ladies  "Whiteley's"  was  a  sort  of  club. 
There  they  met  regularly  in  the  morning,  and  discussed 
the  most  recherche  diseases  of  the  moment,  and  the 
little  scandals  that  constituted  the  fashionable  intelli- 
gence of  the  neighbourhood. 

Agog  with  excitement  at  the  proposed  presentation, 
they  were  surrounding  Ethel. 


A  MOTHERS'  MEETING  47 

A  tall,  fair  girl,  she  possessed  in  a  modified  form 
the  features  of  her  family,  with  the  exception  of  the 
nose,  Greek  in  the  actor,  aquiline  in  Richard. 

Ethel's  nose  was  delicately  tip-tilted,  and  gave  an 
expression  of  almost  American  vivacity  to  a  face  which, 
by  reason  of  its  high,  broad  brows,  might  have  been 
unbecomingly  intellectual.  Her  hair,  parted  in  the  mid- 
dle, rippled  over  her  forehead,  and  was  tied  in  an 
apparently  artless  knot  at  the  back  of  her  neck.  Yet 
she  did  not  suggest  a  flapper. 

She  could  not  afford  to  dress  in  anything  like  the 
height  of  fashion,  but  she  had  the  wonderful  gift,  less 
rare  among  American  than  Englishwomen,  of  wearing 
her  clothes  well. 

Praise  of  Montague  ran  high,  for  Lady  Meyville 
had  been  only  too  pleased  to  explain  that  Ethel's  pre- 
sentation was  due  entirely  to  the  spontaneous  liberality 
of  her  eldest  son. 

Mrs.  Pegram  was  admiring  his  latest  photograph. 
The  only  expensive  ornaments  of  the  room  were  elab- 
orate frames  containing  Montague's  pictures.  These, 
in  fact,  were,  with  the  exception  of  theatre  tickets,  the 
sole  support  contributed  by  him  to  the  household. 

"And  who  will  present  dear  Ethel?"  asked  Mrs. 
Bolitho,  "that  is  such  an  important  matter." 

Lady  Meyville  explained  that  that  office  would  be 
performed  by  Lady  Griselda  Braythorpe. 

At  the  mention  of  this  celebrated  woman  of  fashion, 
little  Mrs.  Pegram's  breath  came  short. 

"You  really  know  her!"  she  exclaimed;  "you  know 
her  well  enough  to " 

"Oh,  yes,  she  is  a  cousin  of  mine." 

"Really,  but  she  never  comes  here!  I  should  dote 
upon  meeting  her." 


48  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Lady  Griselda,  a  good-hearted 
and  exceedingly  considerate  person,  only  went  to  Glou- 
cester Terrace  when  she  was  sure  of  not  encountering 
the  "Mothers'  Meeting,"  as  she  called  her  somewhat 
distant  cousin's  matronly  friends. 

She  had  heard  descriptions  of  them  from  Lady  Mey- 
ville,  descriptions  that  were  humorous  without  being 
caustic,  and  although  she  delighted  in  hearing  of  their 
manners  and  customs,  she  had  no  wish  to  meet  the 
ladies  in  the  flesh. 

"I  fancy,"  said  Mrs.  Bolitho,  biting  her  nails  (the 
only  form  of  manicure  she  practised),  "that  I  have 
met  Lady  Griselda  socially — in  society." 

A  look  of  sheer  surprise  at  this  audacity  appeared 
in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce — a  look  that 
demanded  an  explanation  of  so  astounding  a  state- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Bolitho  rose  to  the  occasion: 

"I  think  I  must  have  met  her  with  the  Princess  of 
Salmon  von  Gluckstein.  She  is  very  well  bred,  is  she 
not?" 

Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce  reassured  her  on  that  point,  and 
added : 

"She  is  an  intimate  friend  of  my  daughter's.  I  saw 
in  The  Morning  Post  that  she  dined  in  Green  Street  the 
other  night." 

The  admission  was  unfortunate,  because  she  had  no 
wish  to  confess  that  her  knowledge  of  Gwendo- 
len's movements  was  derived  solely  from  the  public 
Press. 

Soon  after  Mr.  Ainslie's  marriage  he  had  found  that 
the  society  of  his  mother-in-law,  indulged  in  to  any 
extent,  would  be  fatal  to  his  peace  of  mind.  Her  per- 
petual prattle  about  servants  and  babies  and  butchers' 


A  MOTHERS'  MEETING  49 

bills  pained  him.  Further,  the  interest  she  took  in  his 
frail  body  caused  him  all  the  anxiety  of  a  new  disease. 
She  had  attempted  to  take  him  in  hand,  to  interfere 
with  his  internal  economy.  During  long  conversations, 
she  had  endeavoured  to  get  him  to  make  a  clean  breast 
of  everything  from  which  he  had  suffered,  and  let  her 
advise  on  the  matter. 

This  he  had  resented.  A  neuromaniac  on  the  subject 
of  his  diseases,  he  was — in  her  case — unusually  selfish 
with  regard  to  them.  His  eccentric  internal  mechan- 
ism was  the  passion  of  his  life.  Such  diligent  study 
had  he  devoted  to  his  case  that  for  years  he  had  held 
the  opinion  that  any  medical  man  would,  compared  to 
himself,  be  an  amateur  on  the  matter. 

He  never  consulted  a  specialist,  or  even  a  general 
practitioner,  and  he  was  adamant  on  completing  his 
journey  to  the  tomb  without  the  assistance  of  Mrs. 
Paxton-Pryce.  Therefore  it  was  that  she  and  her 
husband  (whom  she  had  skilfully  reduced  to  the  condi- 
tion of  a  nonentity,  especially  in  his  own  home),  were 
almost  strangers  to  Green  Street. 

Hastily  this  lady  added: 

"You  know  poor  Wilfred  is  such  a  great  sufferer. 
He  does  not  take  proper  care  of  himself.  I  am  per- 
fectly sure  that  he  shows  symptoms  of  pseudo-spinal 
catarrh.  You  know,  my  dear,  that  is  quite  the  latest." 

"Are  there  fashions  in  diseases?"  queried  Lady  Mey- 
ville  with  an  amused  smile. 

"Oh,  yes,  my  dear.  Appendicitis  is  quite  out  of 
date.  They  say  that  the  operation  has  not  fulfilled 
expectations.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Mrs.  Beaver  in 
the  boot  department ;  no,  it  was  the  perfumery  depart- 
ment— I  am  sure  it  was  the  perfumery.  You  know 
Mrs.  Beaver,  don't  you?  Such  a  charming  woman. 


50  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

She  has  just  bought  a  new  foulard.  It  is  quite  a 
dream,  but  I  don't  think  it  suits  her  in  the  least.  Well, 
she  was  telling  me " 

Here  followed  a  detailed  description  of  a  chaotic  ail- 
ment, given  at  great  length  and  almost  incredible  in- 
accuracy. Double  dyspepsia  and  pleuro-meningitis 
were  freely  mentioned. 

One  physical  fantasy  led  to  another,  and  the  room 
was  animated  by  a  contest  in  medical  reminiscences. 

Ethel  and  her  mother  simply  provided  the  necessary 
punctuation  to  excite  the  speakers,  who  were  enjoying 
themselves  immensely. 

The  body  is  the  most  universally  interesting  subject 
that  exists,  and  the  puritanical  morality  of  these 
women  compelled  them  to  take  an  interest  in  its 
capacity  for  bearing  pain.  They  had  no  delicacy, 
scarcely  common  decency,  in  discussing  the  subject. 

Suddenly  the  conversation  changed. 

With  elephantine  badinage,  Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce 
turned  to  Ethel. 

"Have  you  seen  much  of  Mr.  Brinstable  lately?" 

"I?"  asked  the  girl,  with  her  lips  imperceptibly  com- 
pressed, and  giving  no  signs  of  the  pleasing  titter  that 
Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce  so  evidently  expected. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  took  an  interest  in  him.  Every 
girl  in  the  neighbourhood  takes  an  interest  in  Mr. 
Brinstable." 

Mr.  Brinstable  was  a  very  prominent  figure  in  Bays- 
water  society.  By  means  of  effrontery  and  perse- 
verance he  had  acquired  almost  the  sole  control  of  the 
firm  of  Messrs.  Venables,  Hampton  and  Brinstable. 
The  senior  partners,  old  men,  who  had  built  up  this 
eminently  respectable  solicitor's  business  had,  little  by 
little  and  with  entire  confidence,  left  its  direction  in 


A  MOTHERS'  MEETING  51 

the  hands  of  the  pushing  and  enterprising  junior 
partner. 

Billy  Brinstable  was  forty  years  of  age.  He  pos- 
sessed a  handsome  flat  in  Hyde  Park  Mansions.  In- 
deed, "Bayswater  Billy"  was  regarded  as  one  of  the 
most  desirable  partis  in  the  neighbourhood. 

There  was  scarcely  a  Bayswater  matron  who  did  not 
hope  to  secure  him  as  a  son-in-law.  At  all  dances  his 
presence  was  desired.  And,  hitherto,  though  several 
of  the  prettiest  local  maidens  had  been  spoken  of 
quasi-matrimonially  in  connection  with  him,  yet  he 
had  never  actually  proposed  marriage  to  any  one  of 
them. 

Bayswater  feared  that  Billy  might  seek  an  alliance 
in  some  more  fashionable  portion  of  the  metropolis. 
So  Bayswater  strained  every  nerve  to  prevent  an 
occurrence  which  would  be  little  short  of  a  suburban 
calamity. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  the  girlhood  of  Bayswater 
actually  fought  for  him.  Yet  few  presentable  maidens 
had  neglected  to  sue  for  his  hand. 

He  was  not  actually  spoken  of  as  "Bayswater  Billy," 
any  more  than  Whiteley's  is  spoken  of  as  "The  Club." 
But  just  as  that  emporium  is  the  centre  of  the  social 
life  of  the  district,  so  did  William  Augustus  Brinstable 
represent  the  spirit  and  aspirations  of  Bayswater. 
His  rough  textured  complexion  resembled  red  blotting- 
paper.  But  for  his  large  waterfall  moustache,  he 
would  have  looked  very  like  his  coachman.  And  when 
the  two  were  sitting  side  by  side  in  his  smart  phaeton, 
the  bebuttonholed  master  seemed  less  like  a  gentleman 
than  the  servant.  One  felt  that  the  coachman  should 
have  worn  the  moustache;  that  Billy  should  have 
donned  the  cockade. 


52  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Lady  Meyville  smiled  at  the  absurdity  of  an  innuendo 
connecting  her  daughter  with  this  vulgarian. 

"I  doubt,"  she  said,  "whether  any  sane  human  being 
could  take  an  interest  in  Mr.  Brinstable." 

A  glance  that  did  not  escape  Mrs.  Pegram  passed 
from  the  daughter  to  the  mother.  It  was  a  short, 
sharp  glance  of  anxiety.  But  Lady  Meyville  did  not 
see  it. 

Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce  persisted. 

"The  other  night  I  heard  that  you  danced  three 
dances  with  him." 

"Where  was  that?"  asked  Lady  Meyville  incredu- 
lously. 

"At  the  Mosensteins,"  Ethel  answered  with  delib- 
eration. 

Bayswater  receives  Jews  discreetly,  and  accepts  their 
hospitality  indiscriminately. 

"Ethel — ?  You  are  joking,  surely?"  said  Lady 
Meyville. 

"No,  I  am  not  joking;"  and  then  suddenly,  quite 
calmly,  she  added: 

"I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Brinstable." 

Then  there  was  a  hubbub. 

Mrs.  Pegram  flew  to  embrace  her.  Here,  indeed, 
was  an  item  of  society  news  to  carry  back  to  Smel- 
hurst ! 

Questions  were  showered  upon  the  girl,  questions  as 
to  the  proposal  and  how  it  was  made,  and  how  happy 
she  felt,  and  when  it  was  to  be.  They  remained  un- 
answered, while  the  girl  stared  at  her  mother,  who 
was  pale,  and  made  no  sign. 

This  thunderclap — the  idea  of  a  union  between  her 
daughter  and  this  blatant  man — seemed  to  have  para- 
lysed her. 


A  MOTHERS'  MEETING  53 

The  other  ladies  were  delighted.  Bayswater  had 
triumphed. 

Mrs.  Pegram  regarded  Smelhurst  as  a  sort  of  colony 
of  Bayswater.  Immediately  her  thoughts  turned  in 
the  direction  of  a  cheap  and  useless  wedding  present. 
Perhaps  a  beautifully  bound  copy  of  How  to  be  Happy 
though  Horrid. 

Mrs.  Bolitho  hoped  the  marriage  would  take  place 
soon,  because,  she  said,  the  Princess  of  Salmon  von 
Gluckstein  was  in  favour  of  short  engagements.  She 
even  went  so  far  in  her  enthusiasm  as  to  promise  the 
Princess's  presence  at  the  wedding. 

"At  any  rate,  you  can  have  her  among  'the  list  of 
those  invited.'  That  sort  of  thing  looks  so  well  in  the 
papers,"  she  said,  with  an  unbecoming  smile  of  worldly 
wisdom. 

Full  of  news,  the  ladies  went  their  ways  to  publish  it. 

When  they  had  gone,  Ethel  threw  herself  into  her 
mother's  arms  in  a  passion  of  deep  sobs. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  left  the  room. 

A  broken  voice  came  from  the  sofa: 

"Montague  will  be  very  disappointed." 


CHAPTER  V 

BAYSWATER    BILLY 

JUBILANTLY  high-spirited,  Richard  went  home  to 
dinner. 

On  his  face  was  the  triumphant  look  of  a  man  who 
is  assured  of  immediate  success.  He  seized  the  slight 
figure  of  his  mother  in  his  arms,  and  covered  the  pale 
cheeks  with  kisses.  He  looked  down  tenderly  into  her 
face  as  he  held  it  in  his  hands. 

"They  are  terrible  people,  mother,  revolting  people ! 
But  I  am  briefed  for  the  defence,  and  I  shall  get  them 
off." 

Vaguely  she  asked,  "Whom  are  you  going  to  defend, 
dear?" 

"Ah,  you  haven't  read  the  case,"  he  answered,  "but 
everybody  is  talking  about  it.  Of  course,  my  dear,  all 
horrible  things  in  this  world  pass  you  by.  You  have 
got  troubles  enough,  mother.  I  am  glad  that  you  are 
spared  the  monstrous.  But  this  is  the  turning-point 
in  my  life." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Mind,  mother,  it  is  a  certainty.  I  am  not  raising 
false  hopes.  As  sure  as  I  am  kissing  you  again  and 
again,  within  a  month  my  name  will  be  made,  my  for- 
tune will  be  made,  and  you  shall  have  everything  you 
want.  No  more  horrible  economy.  You  shall  not  have 
a  care  in  the  world  if  I  can  help  it." 

In  spite  of  her  trouble,  some  infinitesimal  portion  of 


BAYSWATER  BILLY  55 

the  happiness  that  gleamed  in  his  eyes  was  reflected 
in  hers. 

Rapidly  he  explained  to  her  that  Durham,  the 
criminal  solicitor,  had  come  down  to  chambers  that 
morning  and  offered  him  the  defence;  that  after  three 
hours'  hard  work  and  consultation  he  had  decided  on  a 
course  which  should  render  conviction  impossible. 
England  would  be  startled.  The  moral  guilt  of  the 
prisoners  had  been  completely  proved  in  the  police 
court.  The  public  would  believe  that  their  acquittal 
was  due  to  the  brilliance  of  the  advocate  rather  than 
to  the  peculiar  condition  of  the  law. 

She  interspersed  words  of  callous  congratulation,  to 
which,  in  his  engrossment,  he  hardly  listened. 

He  gathered  from  her  that  Ethel  was  not  well — had 
a  bad  headache — and  would  not  appear  at  dinner. 

During  the  meal  she  talked  laboriously;  she  talked 
of  trivial  things,  and  then,  when  the  parlour-maid  had 
left  the  room,  she  told  him  that  Ethel  was  engaged  to 
Mr.  Brinstable. 

"What!     Not  Brinstable— the  solicitor!" 

"Yes." 

"The  vulgar  man  with  the  red  face  and  the  misfit 
moustache !" 

"Yes." 

In  utter  astonishment  he  exclaimed: — 

"Is  Ethel  out  of  her  mind?" 

"Ethel  has  chosen  for  herself,"  said  his  mother. 

"Well,  I  forbid  the  engagement.  That  is  all  I  have 
to  say.  You  don't  approve,  surely?" 

She  seemed  to  be  staring  far  away. 

He  waited  for  some  explanation,  for  some  panegyric 
on  unsuspected  merits  in  William  Brinstable,  but  she 
said  nothing. 


56  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

It  seemed  to  him  incredible  that  his  sister,  a  girl  of 
intellect  and  intelligence,  the  perpetual  companion  of 
his  mother,  his  own  firm  friend,  should  possess  a  side 
to  her  individuality  of  which  he  was  entirely  ignorant. 
He  could  not  conceive  that  any  portion  of  her  brain 
was  so  disorganised  as  to  dominate  her  judgment  and 
inspire  love  for  this  impossible  man. 

The  demeanour  of  his  mother,  and  his  knowledge  of 
his  sister,  drove  him  irresistibly  to  the  impression  that 
the  girl  was  marrying  for  money. 

Even  had  Brinstable  been  a  millionaire,  he  would 
have  vetoed  the  marriage  for  what  that  veto  was  worth. 

His  knowledge  of  the  world  showed  him  that  Ethel 
would  be  buying  money  at  far  too  high  a  price. 

On  the  facts  before  him  he  interpreted  the  situation 
in  this  way. 

Ethel  had  been  deceived  by  the  coarse  glamour  of 
the  man.  She  had  stifled  her  natural  horror  of  his 
personality  in  the  hope  of  ameliorating  the  poor  little 
household  in  Gloucester  Terrace.  She  was  willing  to 
sacrifice  herself.  His  heart  bled  for  her. 

There  was  no  other  solution  of  the  matter.  She 
could  not  love  Brinstable.  She  could  not  even  like  him. 

And  yet  he  knew  that  this  coarse  man  exercised  some 
mysterious,  inexplicable  influence  over  women,  an  influ- 
ence incomprehensible  to  a  masculine  mind.  Often,  he 
remembered,  girls'  eyes  had  shot  glances  of  admiration 
at  Billy.  It  might  be  that  the  solicitor  possessed  some 
good,  some  alluring  points.  But  had  the  giddy,  gig- 
gling Bayswater  girls  sufficient  perspicacity  to  detect 
them?  He  doubted  it. 

As  he  looked  at  his  mother's  evident  uneasiness,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  understood  the  situation  in  its 
entirety. 


BAYSWATER  BILLY  57 

He  ceased  playing  with  the  apple-peel  on  his  plate, 
rose,  and  stood  by  her  side. 

"We  must  not  let  her  do  this,"  he  said. 

"Richard,  you  don't  understand.  I  have  been  in  the 
world  a  little  longer  than  you." 

This  invalid  claim  to  wisdom  she  had  never  hitherto 
pressed. 

"I  am  an  old  woman,  Richard,  and  I  know  Ethel 
better  even  perhaps  than  I  know  you,  and — 

"You  are  not  going  to  suggest  that  there  is  any 
possibility  of  these  two  being  happy  together?" 

"I  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't  get  on,"  she  urged 
in  a  half-hearted,  unconvincing  tone. 

"I  will  tell  you  why  they  will  not  get  on,"  he 
answered  firmly,  "because  she  is  a  lady,  and  he  is  not  a 
gentleman." 

To  his  intense  surprise  her  answer  was : — 

"He's  a  rich  man." 

She  had  always  been  proud  of  her  family,  not  alto- 
gether undistinguished,  though  in  no  sense  eminent. 
He  failed  to  understand  the  statement  of  defence  that 
she  flung,  almost  arrogantly,  in  his  face. 

"Then  you  will  let  her  marry  for  money?" 

"My  dear  Richard,"  she  replied,  "you  don't  realise 
what  poverty  is.  You  haven't  enough  pride." 

She,  to  his  thinking,  was  laying  down  a  contradic- 
tion in  terms. 

She  continued  earnestly: 

"Look  at  this  house.  It  all  wants  re-papering.  I 
need  an  extra  servant.  Is  a  girl  like  that  to  go  about 
in  cleaned  gloves,  to  wear  half-guinea  toques?  Mr. 
Brinstable  is  her  only  chance.  I've  thought  of  all  the 
young  men  we  know — and  there  are  very  few  of  them." 
Then  she  shot  an  arrow  at  him.  "You  never  bring  any 


58  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

young  men  to  the  house.  You're  always  at  the  club. 
How  can  she,  dressed  as  she  is,  living  as  we  do,  hope 
to  marry  anything  better  than  a  stockbroker's  clerk?" 

Through  his  lips  came  a  slight  whistle. 

She  flared  up  at  it. 

"Is  any  man  likely  to  marry  the  sister  of  a  man — 
living  as  you  live?  Everybody  knows  about  you  and 
Mrs.  Ainslie." 

His  voice  trembled  as  he  tried  to  control  his  anger  at 
this  purely  Bayswaterian  sentiment. 

"If  my  sister  is  compelled  to  marry  a  man  like  that 
because  of  me — I'm  very  sorry.  That's  all." 

"You  should  have  thought  of  that  before." 

"I've  nothing  more  to  say." 

"Naturally  not,  Richard!  Montague,  the  head  of 
the  family,  will  undoubtedly  approve." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    MISFORTUNES    OF    A    GREAT    ACTOR 

AT  11  o'clock  next  morning,  Montague  rose  in  his 
flat  in  Park  Place,  St.  James's.  His  temper  was  bad. 
The  papers  had  not  been  satisfactory.  In  the  eight 
morning  journals  which  he  regularly  cast  his  eye  over 
in  bed  only  once  or  twice  had  his  eye  caught  sight  of 
his  own  name. 

With  great  annoyance  he  had  read  in  the  Daily  Mail 
that  Mr.  "Willie"  Samuel  had  been  riding  in  the  Park, 
and  that  Mr.  Maurice  Murior  had  given  "a  luncheon 
party  at  Claridge's,  and  that  amongst  those  present 
were  Lady  Pamela  1'Estocq  and  Lady  Feo  Clarke,  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  season's  debutantes" 

Of  his  own  movements  nothing  was  said.  Now  the 
two  other  actors  mentioned  were  neck  and  neck  with 
him  in  the  race  for  the  knighthood  that  was  the  aristo- 
cratic goal  of  their  artistic  careers. 

In  addition  to  all  this,  considerable  prominence  was 
given  to  the  statement  that  Mr.  Richard  Meyville, 
"brother  of  the  well-known  actor,  Mr.  Cliftonville," 
was  to  defend  the  Yoghi  and  Priscilla  at  the  forthcom- 
ing sessions  at  the  Old  Bailey. 

This  was  very  annoying.  The  fact  that  Richard's 
clients  had  brought  the  actor  a  certain  unexpected 
publicity  did  not  console  him. 

Surely  Royalty  would  not  look  with  favour  on  an 
actor  whose  brother  was  mixed  up  in  so  revolting  a 


case 


60  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Samuel  and  Murior  were  forging  ahead.  At  all 
hazards  he  would  himself  ride  in  the  Park  to-morrow. 
But  what  else  could  be  done? 

Richard  must  be  prevented  from  standing  in  the  way 
of  the  family.  (The  family,  to  Mr.  Cliftonville,  was 
personified  in  himself.) 

Though,  at  best,  he  could  only  be  called  the  figure- 
head, yet  there  were  moments  when  he  regarded  him- 
self as  the  entire  ship — the  ship  of  which  the  figure- 
head was,  however,  the  major  part. 

He  sent  his  valet  out  with  a  telegram  summoning 
Richard  to  the  theatre. 

Having  breakfasted,  he  left  his  chambers  and  walked 
slowly  down  St.  James's  Street. 

In  spite  of  his  irritation,  he  was  pleased  with  his 
appearance,  especially  with  the  sheen  on  his  "wonder- 
ful silver  hair,"  as  the  papers  loved  to  call  it.  His  hat 
was  conspicuously  shiny.  It  was,  in  fact,  an  eminent 
hat,  a  hat  of  peculiar  construction,  a  hat  such  as  could 
only  be  worn  by  an  eminent  man.  But  so  subtly 
designed  were  its  curves  that  even  commonplace  fea- 
tures would  have  looked  eminent  beneath  it.  The  only 
thing  that  could  be  said  against  his  fur-trimmed  coat 
was  that  it  looked  too  warm  for  the  weather. 

There  was  something  hierarchic  about  him.  Indeed, 
Montague,  as  he  strutted  along,  presented  the  appear- 
ance of  a  sporting  Cardinal. 

Eagerly,  as  was  his  wont,  he  scanned  the  passers-by 
to  detect  the  look  of  surprised  awe  that  is  the  due  of  a 
celebrity. 

One  man,  on  catching  sight  of  him,  identified  him 
to  the  lady  on  his  arm. 

"There  is  Mr.  Cliftonville,  the  actor,"  he  said,  and 
the  lady  seemed  pleased. 


THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  A  GREAT  ACTOR     61 

Another  passer-by,  realising  that  he  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  figure  built  on  beautiful  lines,  explained  the 
matter  thus: — 

"By  Jove,  that  is  Beerbohm  Tree,  the  actor." 

A  shade  of  unwarranted  annoyance  passed  over 
Montague's  face. 

When  he  reached  the  theatre  he  was  surprised  and 
pained  to  find  that  Richard  had  not  arrived,  but 
instead  of  his  brother  he  found  a  laconic  telegram, 
"Busy ;  come  here  to  my  chambers  at  four — Richard." 
It  ruffled  the  actor  considerably. 

So  he  was  to  be  at  the  beck  and  call  of  this  defender 
of  the  Yoghi,  was  he? 

Two  days  before,  this  young  brother  of  his  had 
browbeaten  him  in  his  own  theatre.  He  had  even 
extorted  the  promise  of  a  cheque.  There  was  some 
consolation  in  the  fact  that  he,  Montague,  had  hitherto 
forgotten  to  remember  about  the  cheque.  But  he  now 
firmly  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  never  send  it. 
While  looking  at  his  reflection  in  the  shop  windows  he 
caught  sight  of  Lord  Lashbridge.  This  man  (like 
himself)  had  all  the  external  attributes  of  the  truly 
great.  The  third  marquess,  a  gentleman  of  considera- 
ble culture,  a  shrewd  critic  of  the  arts  and  of  men,  had, 
owing  to  his  eccentric  politics,  never  reached  any  more 
remarkable  eminence  than  a — Mastership  of  the  Ante- 
Chamber.  He  had  introduced  into  this  country  the 
works  of  many  French  painters.  He  had  drawn  atten- 
tion to  the  works  of  certain  English  writers  hitherto 
unknown.  He  was  also  an  expert  in  the  lost  art  of  mili- 
tary strategy.  Had  he  not  been  a  peer  he  would  surely 
have  been  a  great  man.  But  at  the  age  of  fifty  he  was 
content  to  be  merely  happy. 

Having  failed  to  be  great  in  a  conspicuous  manner, 


62  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

he  took  a  deep  interest  in  the  minor  things  of  life. 
The  education  of  his  beautiful  daughter,  Lady  Pamela 
1'Estocq,  had  absorbed  much  of  his  time.  He  devoted 
considerable  attention  to  his  clothes,  which  were  always 
very  much  too  large  for  him.  Also,  he  was  a  Grand 
Officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  and  the  chairman  of 
the  Great  Southern  Railway. 

His  works  on  military  manoeuvres,  unknown  in  this 
country,  were  text-books  in  Germany,  France,  and 
Japan.  It  was  his  proudest  boast  that  he  was  a  com- 
plete insular  failure. 

On  this  occasion  he  wore  a  white  hat  with  a  black 
band,  a  huge  flapping  grey  coat,  and  in  his  immense 
white  satin  stock  was  a  large  pink  pearl  surrounded 
by  small  black  opals. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  he  said,  as  he  put  a  rough, 
yellow  glove  on  Montague's  shoulder. 

"You  have  seen  the  piece?  It's  a  good  piece,"  an- 
swered the  actor  modestly,  in  anticipation  of  a  per- 
sonal compliment. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Lashbridge  in  a  musical  voice, 
one  of  his  greatest  charms.  He  was  delighted  to  meet 
Montague,  whose  vanity  always  amused  him.  "I  pre- 
fer to  see  actors  off  the  stage.  They  interest  me  more. 
The  illusion  is  destroyed  when  I  see  an  actor  actually 
acting.  You  know  I  have  taken  a  great  interest  in  the 
Labour  question.  To  see  the  labourer  at  work  gives 
me  no  idea  of  the  true  condition  of  his  life.  I  must 
see  him  at  home  or  in  Parliament  to  form  a  judg- 
ment." 

"But  the  actor  is  not  a  workman,"  protested  Mr. 
Cliftonville. 

"I  should  say  that  everyone  who  works  is  a  work- 
man. And  it  seems  to  me  the  proudest  title  that  a 


THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  A  GREAT  ACTOR     63 

man  can  own.  No.  I  am  congratulating  you  on  your 
brother.  I  see  that  this  extraordinarily  clever  young 
barrister,  Richard  Meyville,  is  your  brother.  I  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  Law  Courts  the  other  day,  and  I 
heard  him.  Excellent.  The  man  talks  sound  sense. 
And,  what  is  more,  he  talks  it  in  good  English.  I 
congratulate  you  most  heartily." 

Then  he  passed  on. 

Richard  was  becoming  somewhat  of  a  nuisance  to 
Montague. 

On  reaching  his  theatre  the  actor — after  a  few 
moments'  deep  thought  in  the  office — called  for  his 
Press  agent,  to  whom  he  handed  a  piece  of  paper  on 
which  he  had  written  these  words: 

"Mr.  Montague  Cliftonville,  looking  handsomer  than 
ever,  was  talking  to  Lord  Lashbridge  in  St.  James's 
Street  yesterday  morning." 

"Have  that  typewritten,  and  take  it  yourself  to  The 
Planet.  It  must  come  out  in  the  'Creme  de  la  Creme1 
column.  Mind  there  is  no  mistake  about  it.  The  other 
day  they  altered  a  paragraph  of  mine  and  made  it 
absurd.  Instead  of  saying  that  /  was  riding  with  the 
Duke  of  Liverpool,  they  said  that  the  Duke  was  riding 
with  me.  That  sort  of  thing  does  me  a  lot  of  harm 
in  Society." 

"Yes,  governor." 

"I  suppose  that  in  the  theatre  you  do  not  allude  to 
rne  as  'the  governor,'  do  you?" 

"Oh,  no.     We  call  you  'the  chief.'  " 

"Quite  right.  Irving  used  always  to  be  called  'the 
chief.'  " 

He  was  pleased  to  find  that  a  rehearsal  of  one 
of  his  provincial  companies  was  taking  place  on  the 
stage.  . 


64  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

He  went  down  and  spent  half  an  hour  acting  all  the 
parts  and  explaining  how  totally  incapable  were  the 
actors  whom  he  had  engaged. 

They  were  mostly  provincial  mummers  who  could 
only  act  and  could  not  dress.  They  spoke  their  lines 
audibly.  They  could  impersonate  their  characters 
intelligently.  But  they  would  not  shine  in  Semi-Soci- 
ety. Therefore,  Mr.  Cliftonville  had  no  need  for  them 
in  London,  where  he  only  engaged  professional  beau- 
ties, male  and  female. 

He  explained  to  them  kindly  that  the  sole  duty  of 
an  actor  was  to  look  like  a  gentleman.  (He  was  so 
much  of  a  gentleman  that  he  was  almost  genteel,  surely 
a  terrible  thing  to  be.)  He  further  described  his  early 
struggles  on  the  stage. 

"My  first  appearance,"  he  said,  "was  as  the  Ghost 
in  Hamlet.  I  began  absolutely  at  the  bottom  of  the 
ladder.  I  played  the  Ghost  at  the  Lyceum,  and  what 
do  you  think  the  papers  said?  They  said,  'Mr.  Clif- 
ton ville's  Ghost  is  essentially  a  gentlemanlike  ghost.' 
Mind  you,  I  was  a  mere  beginner.  That  was  ten  years 
ago.  I  realised  that  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father 
was  a  gentleman  first  and  a  ghost  afterwards.  That 
is  a  thing  that  no  other  actor  had  noticed." 

The  company  listened  with  respectful  incredulity. 
They  could  not  conceive  that  a  man  who  had  risen  to 
the  heights  of  their  profession  should  be  so  perfectly 
inane.  It  was  a  well-known  fact  that  his  Ghost  had 
been  a  sort  of  mincing  dandy  suffering  from  anaemia. 

"Rex,"  the  eminent  critic  and  caricaturist,  had,  in- 
deed, used  the  word  "gentlemanlike"  in  gentlemanlike 
derision. 

Having  lunched  at  the  Carlton  grill-room,  he 
returned  to  the  theatre  and  busied  himself  ostenta- 


THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  A  GREAT  ACTOR     65 

tiously  with  his  various  advisers  in  devising  schemes 
for  not  attending  to  business. 

He  refused  to  see  a  large  number  of  persons  on  the 
plea  of  pressure  of  work.  He  toyed  with  the  illus- 
trated papers,  searching  for  paragraphs  and  pictures 
of  himself. 

In  The  Phoenix  he  found  a  poem  which  annoyed  him 
intensely. 

THE  PERSEVERING  PLAYWRIGHT 

He  was  a  dramatist  whose  name 

Will  always  be  unknown  to  Fame — 

One  of  the  very,  very  few 

Who  are  not  mentioned  in  "Who's  Who." 

He  had,  with  quite  consummate  tact 

Elaborated,  act  by  act, 

A  play  of  great  dramatic  worth, 

With  problems,  sin  and  wholesome  mirth, 

Upon  a  squalid  murder  he 
Had  built  a  fane  of  chivalry, 
'Mid  clash  of  steel  and  roar  of  guns 
Relieved  with  admirable  puns. 

Each  thinking  man  will  surely  say, 
"By  Jove,  I'd  like  to  see  that  play! 
It  seems  too  splendid  to  be  true, 
But  if  it  is,  egad,  I'll  boo!" 

This  author  had  a  nervous  dread 
His  masterpiece  would  not  be  read 
By  courteous  managers,  who  might 
With  kindly  condescension  write: 


66  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"It  pains  me  very  much  to  say 
That  your  extremely  brilliant  play 
Is  realty  far  too  good  for  me, 
Yours  very  truly,  H.  B.-T" 

Or  yet  again,  "This  play  is  bad, 
But  send  your  next,  and  I'll  be  glad, 
Young  man,  to  read  it  by-and-by — 
Yours  most  sincerely,  H.  B.  I" 

"Dear  Sir, — The  play  you  write  about 
Arrived  when  I  was  lunching  out. 
Most  of  my  secretaries  say 
It  will  not  suit. — (Per  pro)  GEORGE  A." 

"My  dear  old  fellow,  it  appears 
That  though  I  kept  your  play  for  years, 
I've  lost  it  now.    So  you  are  free, 
To  send  it  elsewhere. — ARTHUR  B." 

"The  public  at  the  present  day 

Won't  stand  THREE  strong  parts  in  one  play. 

If  you'll  amalgamate  the  three 

In  one,  I'll  play  it,  MONTIE  C." 

"What  did  he  do?"  you  aptly  ask, 
"How  did  this  man  attempt  the  task 
Of  getting  managers  to  see 
The  merits  of  his  comedy?" 

He  merely  fixed  upon  a  day 
To  hold  an  auction  of  his  play, 
And  asked  ALL  managers  to  be 
Prepared  to  hear  it — sharp  at  three. 

And  he  who  made  the  highest  bid 

Should  have  the  play.     That's  what  he  did. 


THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  A  GREAT  ACTOR     67 

(And  that  is  quite  the  fairest  way 
For  managers  to  buy  a  play.) 

He  ordered  cake  and  wine  and  tea, 
Hop's  ale,  and  other  drinks  (for  he 
Knew  that  the  managerial  brain 
Is  sometimes  fired  by  dry  champagne.) 

He  waited  until  half-past  four, 
But  only  one  man  crossed  his  door, 
He  heard  the  play,  and  HE  ALONE 
(His  name  was  utterly  unknown). 

"I've  heard  your  admirable  prose," 
The  unknown  said,  "and  I  propose  .  .  ." 
The  author  smiled,  "We  shall  not  fail, 
I  trust,  to  bring  about  a  sale." 

"For  moderate  charges  I'll  purvey 

All  notices  about  your  play. 

I  have  as  clients  J.  M.  B., 

And  Captain  M.  and  Sydney  G. — 

You  soon  will  rank  with  ARTHUR  WING/// 
So  I  will  send  you  everything 
That  in  the  papers  there  may  be — 
I'm  a  Press-Cutting  Agency." 

Evidently  the  "Montie  C."  was  himself. 

The  Phoenix  apparently  intended  to  hold  him  up  to 
public  ridicule.  Surely  this  was  libellous. 

True,  other  managers  were  alluded  to.  He  would 
take  up  the  cudgels  on  their  behalf. 

He  therefore  summoned  his  advertising  adviser,  and, 
after  a  lengthy  interview,  instructed  his  legal  adviser 
to  write  a  letter  to  The  Phoenix  demanding  an  apology, 


68  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

and  a  letter  to  The  Era,  explaining  the  whole  matter 
and  containing  a  copy  of  the  letter  to  The  Phoenix. 

Having  taken  these  steps  in  the  interest  of  Art,  he 
jumped  into  a  taxicab  and  drove  down  to  the  Temple. 
After  ascending  three  flights  of  crazy  stairs  he  found 
himself  in  front  of  a  door  so  covered  with  names  that 
it  looked  more  like  a  piece  of  literature  than  any  sort 
of  entrance.  It  was  opened  by  Jubb,  a  shambling  old 
man,  grey  and  faded,  shrill  of  voice,  untidy,  and  un- 
intelligent. 

Richard  paid  for  a  third  share  in  his  useless  services : 
and  the  clerk's  utter  incapacity  had  stood  somewhat  in 
the  way  of  his  employers'  success. 

In  a  small  room,  scantily  furnished,  chiefly  with 
books  and  dust,  the  actor  found  his  brother  surrounded 
by  a  mass  of  documents. 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake  take  off  that  fur  coat,"  said 
Richard,  who,  following  the  precedent  of  a  great  Lord 
Chief  Justice,  detested  this  form  of  garment  in  his 
chambers. 

With  a  surprised  stare  Montague  looked  at  him. 
Richard's  impertinence  seemed  superhuman.  Yet  he 
had  spoken  as  a  man  accustomed  to  be  obeyed.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  the  actor  detected  that  he  was 
inferior  in  manhood  to  the  barrister. 

He  took  off  his  coat.  Without  it  he  felt  incapable 
of  playing  the  part,  the  words  of  which  he  had  impro- 
vised in  the  cab. 

Instead  of  immediately  forbidding  his  brother  to 
proceed  with  the  defence  of  the  Yoghi,  he  began  by 
asking  if  they  were  all  well  at  home. 

As  Richard  looked  at  him,  the  conviction  rose  to 
his  mind  that  Montague  had  no  part  or  lot  in  the 
family,  either  in  its  joys  or  in  its  sorrows,  that  he 


THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  A  GREAT  ACTOR     69 

himself  must  bear  on  his  shoulders  the  weight  of  all 
responsibility  in  connection  with  his  mother  and  sister. 

"Yes,"  he  said  abruptly,  "we  are  all  well  at  home. 
I  do  not  think  it  will  be  necessary  for  you  to  send  that 
cheque." 

"What  cheque  was  that?"  asked  Montague,  anxious, 
as  usual,  to  explain  away  neglect  by  suggested  absence 
of  mind. 

"We  need  not  go  into  that,  Montague.  You  prom- 
ised to  send  mother  a  cheque  for  £30.  You  will  be 
pleased  to  hear  that  it  is  not  needed.  I  will  pay  for 
Ethel's  dress." 

Then,  having  finished  with  the  subject,  Richard 
asked  the  reason  of  the  interview. 

"I  hear  that  you  are  going  to  defend  this  Yoghi?" 

"Yes,  do  you  want  to  see  the  trial?"  he  inquired, 
knowing  that  his  brother  often  attended  the  Old  Bailey 
during  sensational  cases,  "if  so,  I  can  work  it  for 

you." 

Assuming  an  air  of  great  gravity,  the  other  said: 

"I  think  you  are  doing  a  very  unwise  thing.  In 
the  first  place,  it  is  not  the  sort  of  case  that  it  will 
do  you  any  good  to  be  mixed  up  in.  And,  in  the 
second  place,  you  are  sure  to  be  beaten.  Of  course, 
you  will  get  your  name  in  the  papers.  But  every  sort 
of  advertisement  is  not  good  advertisement." 

"My  dear  Montague,  you  must  really  allow  me  to  be 
the  best  judge  of  that — not  of  advertisement  in  gen- 
eral— of  course,"  he  answered  with  a  smile,  "but  of  my 
own  business.  I  know  I  shall  get  an  acquittal.  Be- 
sides, I  have  accepted  the  brief.  I  am  going  through 
with  it." 

"Is  that  your  final  answer.3" 

"Absolutely." 


70  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Montague  tried  another  argument.     He  said: 

"Your  name  will  be  all  over  the  place,  and  Ethel 
will  be  asked  questions  about  it.  You  ought  not  to 
bring  this  sort  of  thing  into  her  life.  You  oughtn't, 
really." 

Richard  was  amused  at  his  brother's  palpable  insin- 
cerity, but  he  did  not  guess  his  real  reason  for  moving 
in  the  matter. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you  would  see  that 
your  advertising  manager — or  whoever  it  is — does  not 
have  me  described,  in  chatty  paragraphs,  as  your 
brother." 

There  was  no  intentional  insult  in  the  younger  man  s 
mind. 

Montague  blushed  crimson. 

"I  don't  understand  what  you  mean." 

"Any  theatrical  association  connected  with  a  bar- 
rister is  bad  for  him.  You  know  an  English  jury  dis- 
likes the  slightest  suggestion  of  the  histrionic.  It 
savours  to  them  of  clap-trap." 

There  was  nothing  more  for  Montague  to  say.  He 
felt  sure  that  the  knighthood  argument  would  not 
appeal  to  his  brother. 

Besides,  with  that  craftiness  which  shallow  in- 
tellects mistake  for  diplomacy,  he  preferred  to 
give  the  untrue  reason  for  anything  he  wished  to 
obtain. 

As  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaving,  Richard  suddenly 
stopped  him. 

"By  the  bye,  you  haven't  had  time  to  write  to  mother 
— or  to  Ethel  with  regard  to  h|r  engagement?  What 
do  you  think  of  it?" 

Montague,  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob,  turned 
blank  eyes  upon  him. 


THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  A  GREAT  ACTOR     71 

Impatiently  Richard  inquired: 

"I  suppose  Ethel's  letter  to  you  didn't  miscarry?  I 
understood  she  wrote  to  you." 

The  actor  became  reproachfully  dignified. 

"I  do  think,"  he  said,  "that — any  sister  of  mine 
should  consult  me — before  becoming  engaged." 

Richard  laughed: 

"My  dear  Montague,  you're  so  very  busy!" 

"I  don't  approve  of — any  sister  of  mine  becoming 
engaged — without  consulting  me." 

He  spoke  as  one  who  did  not  approve  of  anybody 
becoming  engaged  except  himself. 

Richard  turned  over  a  page  of  his  brief  as  he  asked : 

"I  suppose  you've  taken  the  trouble  to  read  the 
letter?" 

"Of  course,  yes. 

Then,  somewhat  indignantly,  he  added: 

"I  don't  think  you  treat  me  with  proper  respect. 
I  should  naturally  read  any  letter — from  my  sister 
in  which  she  stated  that  she  was  engaged.  But  I  ought 
to  have  been  told  before.  I  shouldn't  have  been  kept  in 
the  dark." 

Richard  looked  up  from  his  papers,  and  succinctly 
explained  to  Montague  the  suddenness  of  the  whole 
thing. 

"You  are  the  head  of  the  family,"  he  said.  "What 
do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  think,"  he  replied,  toying  with  the  golden  knob  of 
his  malacca  stick,  "that  a  sister  of  mine  should  have 
done  better — much  better.  I  could  have  introduced 
her  to — people." 

"Then  why  the  dickens  didn't  you?"  came  from 
Richard. 

Cryptically  the  other  replied: 


72  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"I  have  my — Art  to  attend  to.  Ethel  ought  to  have 
done — better." 

So,  in  a  really  bad  temper,  he  left  Essex  Court  and 
went  back  to  his  chambers,  where  he  decided  to  engage 
a  new  leading  lady  for  his  next  production. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AN    EMINENT    MEDICAL    MAN 

AT  six  o'clock  Richard  had  finished  his  day's  work. 

On  the  moment  that  he  put  aside  his  papers  he  was 
faced  by  the  idea  of  Ethel  and  her  unfortunate  engage- 
ment. He  left  his  chambers,  and,  nervously  antagonis- 
tic, walked  westwards  along  the  Strand.  It  was  almost 
a  relief  when  he  found  himself  in  Brook  Street,  at  the 
door  of  Dr.  Plagden. 

The  eminent  ladies'  specialist  received  him  at  once — 
cordially,  almost  deferentially. 

Dr.  Plagden's  fine,  benevolent  head  was  set  on  the 
massive  shoulders  of  a  short  but  athletic  frame.  The 
white  curly  hair  grew  in  thick  clusters  about  his  broad 
forehead,  making  him  almost  suggest  a  human  cauli- 
flower. 

His  face  was  calculated  to  inspire  confidence  in  him, 
both  as  a  man  and  as  a  doctor.  Yet  neither  his 
appearance  nor  his  exquisite  manners  had  been  mainly 
instrumental  in  procuring  him  his  income  of  £8,000  a 
year. 

Bursts  of  childish  laughter  had  risen  from  the  con- 
sulting-room as  Richard  approached  it.  And,  on  his 
entrance,  the  doctor  dismissed  his  five  chubby  chil- 
dren, with  whom  he  had  been  playing  with  boyish 
enthusiasm. 

Richard  was  struck  by  the  contrast  between  the 
man's  profession  and  his  surroundings. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  you  a  favour,"  said  he. 


74  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Instantly  Plagden  offered  him  a  seat,  and  stated 
that  he  was  entirely  at  his  service. 

Whereupon  the  barrister  placed  before  him  several 
complicated  points  of  medical  jurisprudence  involved 
in  the  case  of  the  Yoghi  and  Priscilla. 

Lucidly  the  specialist  explained  the  matters.  Fur- 
thermore, he  stated  that  Richard's  clients  were  by  no 
means  unusual  examples  of  depravity. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  the  smiling  old  man,  "in  my 
profession  we  are  no  more  astounded  at  these  things 
than  you  are  surprised  when  a  man  of  good  position 
becomes,  for  no  apparent  reason — let  us  say — a  forger. 
These  things  happen.  They  cannot  be  accounted  for." 

Richard  was  on  the  point  of  leaving,  profuse  in  his 
thanks. 

"No,"  said  the  other,  "do  not  thank  me.  It  is 
entirely  due  to  you  that  I  occupy  the  position  I  now 
hold." 

"I  don't  quite  follow." 

Plagden  became  reminiscent. 

"Six  years  ago,  in  spite  of  a  life  of  hard  work,  I 
had  only  scraped  together  an  infinitesimal  practice  in 
Maida  Vale.  It  was  then  that  I  met  you,  at  the 
Westminster  Police  Court.  Do  you  remember?  You 
were  prosecuting  a  member  of  my  profession  in  the 
absence  of  your  leader.  I  was  a  witness  for  the  prose- 
cution. Do  you  remember  saying  to  me,  'What  fools 
these  people  are !  If  they  would  only  work  in  a  secret 
partnership,  the  law  could  never  touch  them!  There 
would  never  be  any  difficulty  about  the  certificate  of 
death!'  I  thought  over  those  words  of  yours.  I  went 
into  partnership,  a  secret  partnership,  with  a  brilliant 
young  fellow  who  had  just  left  Guy's.  All  my  capital 
I  invested  in  this  house  and  in  acquiring  the  surround- 


AN  EMINENT  MEDICAL  MAN  75 

ings  of  success.  To  the  shadow,  in  time,  came  the 
substance.  To-day  I  am  doing  pretty  well,"  he  added, 
with  a  benevolent  smile.  "I  owe  my  success  entirely  to 
you.  So  anything  I  can  do  for  you  in  any  way  is  a 
great  pleasure  to  me." 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  that  Richard 
heard  the  man's  story,  for  Plagden  was  one  of  the 
most  striking,  distinctive  figures  in  social  life.  His 
name  was  notorious.  His  occupation  was  openly  dis- 
cussed. Many  fashionable  women  were  spoken  of  as 
having  suffered  from  "Plagdenitis." 

His  consulting-room  was  bare  of  the  usual  photo- 
graphs of  beautiful  women.  There  were  no  mementoes 
of  gratitude  to  show  that  he  ever  attended  lady 
patients  at  all. 

Even  as  Richard  felt  his  hand  in  the  strong  palm  of 
the  doctor  he  realised  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
man  who  had  beyond  question  earned  himself  several 
hundred  years  of  penal  servitude.  But  his  thoughts 
did  not  escape  the  quick  perception  of  the  other. 

"I  suppose  you  regard  me  as  a  villain,"  said  he, 
laughing.  "I  am  not  a  hypocrite.  But  there  are 
many  moments  in  my  life  when  I  look  upon  myself  as 
a  philanthropist.  Not  only  have  I  helped  scores  of 
women,  but  I  have  saved  many  lives.  But  for  me  they 
would  have  gone  to  nervous,  impecunious,  morphia- 
saturated  practitioners,  shivering,  while  operating,  at 
the  spectre  of  the  Law.  Agony  and  death  would  have 
resulted.  But,  thanks  to  your  advice,  I,  in  perfect 
health,  beyond  money  cares,  without  fear  of  the  grip  of 
the  Law,  have  brought  my  practice  to  a  point  of 
methodical  accuracy  that  eliminates  all  element  of 
danger." 

The  laughter  of  the  children  heard  on  the  stairs 


76  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

seemed  in  strange  contrast  to  the  statements  that  fell 
from  the  father's  lips.  Plagden  appeared  to  take  no 
little  pride  in  his  profession. 

"You  are  a  young  man.  You  see,  in  the  main,  the 
bright  side  of  life.  You  see  around  you  at  dances,  at 
dinners,  at  theatres  nothing  but  happy  women.  You 
mingle  with  women  who  tell  you  solely  of  their  triumphs 
and  their  happiness.  But  every  woman  who  comes  into 
this  room  leaves  her  mask  at  the  door,  and  reveals  to 
me  a  face  hideous  with  terror.  From  the  depths  of 
despair  I  seize  them,  and  I  send  them  back  into  the 
world.  But  only  once,  Meyville — only  once.  And  I 
make  this  quite  clear  at  their  first  visit.  On  a  solitary 
occasion  only  has  a  woman  returned  to  me.  In  spite 
of  her  threats  of  exposure,  in  spite  of  her  tears,  I 
sent  her  away.  She  is  the  only  one  of  my  patients  who 
has  died.  I  do  not  say,"  he  continued,  "that  I  am 
making  Society  more  moral.  I  am  not  Hercules  to 
cleanse  that  stable,  and  I  suppose  no  man  living  but 
myself  has  any  idea  what  that  stable  is.  I  only  see 
the  bad  side.  But  it's  a  huge  expanse  of  horror.  I 
could  tell  you  stories  of  noble  names  that  would  make 
you  go  out  and  commit  suicide — if  you  have  any  lin- 
gering faith  in  humanity. 

"And  the  strange  thing  is  this,"  he  continued,  "the 
revenge  that  Society  takes  upon  me.  Socially  I  do  not 
exist.  I  go  into  no  home  except  as  a  professional 
friend.  My  wife  lives  apart  from  other  women.  No 
doctor,  except  my  partner,  will  meet  me  in  consulta- 
tion, nor,  indeed,  anywhere  else!  They  refuse  to  take 
my  eldest  boy  at  Eton.  But  I  am  happy.  Yes — 
strange  though  it  may  seem  to  you — I  am  happy  in 
the  love  of  my  wife,  who  understands,  and  of  my 
children,  who — I  trust — will  never  know.  Yes, 


AN  EMINENT  MEDICAL  MAN  77 

although  I  hold  the  inner  secrets  even  of  palaces,  I  have 
scarcely  a  friend  in  the  world;  I  have  my  debtors. 
But  I  ought  to  be  ashamed,  I  suppose,  to  say  that  I 
am  a  wonderfully  happy  man.  Good-bye,  Meyville;  I 
am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  getting  on  so  well  in 
your  profession." 

Bewildered,  Richard  went  out  into  the  street.     The 
law  of  expediency  was  the  law  of  life. 


He  longed  suddenly  for  the  society  of  Mrs.  Ainslie. 

With  a  brisk  step  he  turned  towards  Green  Street. 

It  was  half-past  seven.  Mrs.  Ainslie  would,  no 
doubt,  be  dressing  for  dinner.  Still,  he  would  see. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  how  anxious  he  felt  lest  she 
should  not  be  at  home. 

Happily,  she  was  at  home,  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the 
drawing-room — white,  green,  and  gold.  She  looked 
tired. 

A  creamy  pink  silk  tea-gown  clung  to  her  figure. 
On  his  entrance  a  sparkle  came  into  her  eyes.  All 
symptoms  of  fatigue  vanished  in  a  glow  of  delighted 
surprise.  She  took  pleasure  in  showing,  without  any 
trivial  coquetry,  the  joy  she  felt  at  his  arrival. 

Heartily  she  said: 

"This  is  fortunate !  I  had  a  horrid,  hot,  dull  day 
at  Raningham.  Some  wretched  woman  stole  a  chiffon 
boa  of  mine  from  the  chairs  near  the  polo-ground. 
Really,  it  is  astonishing  that  one  should  have  to  pay  a 
subscription  in  order  to  move  in  the  society  of  thieves. 
I  have  had  nothing  but  bad  luck  to-day — until  now. 
We  are  not  going  out  to  dinner.  You  must  stay  and 
dine.  Wilfred  is  horribly  ill.  He  has  got  some  new 


78  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

symptoms,  I  think  about  fourteen,  and  he  would  like 
to  tell  you  about  them.  Then  he  will  go  out  to  the 
club.  He  is  always  well  enough  to  go  out  to  the  club." 

She  pressed  his  hand  significantly. 

"Have  you  any  news?"  she  asked  as  she  drew  him  to 
the  sofa. 

"No,"  he  said  shortly. 

"Yes,  you  have,"  she  corrected.  "I  know  you've  got 
news.  I  hoped  it  would  be  good  news.  But  there's 
something,  Richard,  in  your  face  that  tells  me  you're 
worried  about  something.  It  can't  be  your  sister's 
engagement !" 

"How  the  dickens  did  you  know?"  he  asked. 

He  always  tried,  as  far  as  was  possible,  to  keep  his 
luxurious  life  brightened  by  the  sun  of  Mrs.  Ainslie 
separate  from  the  more  or  less  squalid  details  of  the 
home  in  Gloucester  Terrace.  He  was  a  butterfly  try- 
ing to  shake  off  his  chrysalis  form. 

"How  did  I  know?  My  dear  boy,  my  mother  always 
writes  me  all  the  gossip  of  Bayswater." 

He  shot  a  questioning  glance  at  her. 

"Why  does  Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce  take  any  interest  in 
me?  She  doesn't  even  know  that  I  know  you.  But  she 
knows  as  much  as  is  good  for  her  to  know." 

Gwen  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  think  she  does,  in  an  indefinite  way.  But  she 
doesn't  know  that  we  are — well,  I  don't  know  what  she 
knows.  But  any  item  of  news,  such  as  the  engagement 
of  a  person  I've  never  met,  or  the  dismissal  of  a  servant 
I  haven't  seen,  she  always  writes  to  me  about.  I  admit 
I  don't  always  read  the  letters.  But  this  time  I  caught 
sight  of  your  name,  and  I  read  about  the  happy 
event." 

"It  isn't  such  a  happy  event  as  all  that." 


AN  EMINENT  MEDICAL  MAN  79 

Clearly,  he  was  not  anxious  to  talk  about  the  sub- 
ject. He  said,  "I  don't  think  they  are  suited  to  one 
another." 

"What  married  people  are?"  she  inquired.  "But  I 
suppose  it  will  be  all  right." 

Neither  was  she  anxious  to  talk  about  the  subject. 
Gwen  wanted  him  entirely  and  always  to  herself.  Why 
should  he  be  interested  in  a  mother,  or  a  sister,  or  a 
brother !  She  ought  to  be,  surely,  his  whole  interest 
in  life.  She  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  flippant 
"Well,  I  hope  she'll  be  happier  in  her  second  mar- 
riage." Then  she  paused,  looking  at  him  through 
half-closed  eyes. 

"But  haven't  you  any  good  news?  I  have  a  sort  of 
feeling  that  good  luck  is  coming  your  way." 

"You  have  wonderful  intuition,"  he  answered,  smil- 
ing. "You  seem  to  know  everything  about  me." 

"When  one  is  in  love  one  has  intuition — at  least, 
women  have.  What  is  your  good  news?" 

"I'm  going  to  defend  the  Yoghi,"  he  replied. 

She  clapped  her  hands. 

"So  you  did  take  my  advice!  You  did  go  and  see 
some  solicitor!" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "Durham  brought  me  the  brief." 

Then,  suddenly,  he  said: — 

"I  must  be  going.     I've  got  to  dine  at  home." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  she  pleaded,  "you  must  not  desert  me. 
For  five  minutes  I  have  known  that  you  would  be  here 
all  the  evening.  You  mustn't  go  away  now." 

The  influence  of  her  eyes  brought  him  back  to  the 
sofa. 

Searching  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  she  found  a  gold 
cigarette  case,  a  gift  of  her  own.  From  it  she  took  an 
American  cigarette  for  herself,  and  placed  another 


80  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

between  his  lips.  Having  lighted  it,  she  drew  a  long 
breath  and  blew  out  a  puff  of  smoke  with  a  charmingly 
fascinating  movement  of  her  mouth. 

"Oh,  Richard,  your  cigarettes  are  worse  than  ever. 
But  they  remind  me  of  you.  When  you  are  not  here  I 
very  often  go  into  a  cheap  tobacconist's  and  say,  'Give 
me  the  worst  cigarettes  in  the  world.'  They  always 
answer,  'Madam,  we  do  not  keep  bad  cigarettes.'  'But 
some  cigarettes  are  worse  than  others,'  I  suggest, 
'aren't  they?'  On 'that  point  we  are  at  one.  'Then 
give  me  the  worst  you  have.'  And  they  give  me  a  few 
cigarettes  in  a  horrid  cardboard  box,  and  a  great  many 
presents  of  different  sorts,  photographs  of  actresses 
that  one  has  never  heard  of,  and  tiny  little  cardboard 
tunnels.  Then  I  come  back  and  revel  in  an  orgy  of 
horrible  tobacco,  and  then  my  Richard  comes  into  the 
room  and  takes  me  in  his  arms  like  this." 

A  smile  of  amusement  came  into  his  face  while  she 
drew  his  arms  towards  her  and  placed  them  round  her 
shoulders. 

"Are  you  going  away — now?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  must,"  he  answered  irresolutely. 

"No,  you  aren't,"  she  persisted,  "you  are  not,  you 
are  not,  you  are  not!  And  I  will  tell  you  why.  You 
owe  me  a  great  debt  of  gratitude." 

"A  debt  of  gratitude  makes  most  of  us  bankrupt," 
was  his  comment. 

"But  not  you,  Richard,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head. 
"Don't  you  ask  why?  Have  you  no  curiosity?" 

"I  don't  think  I  have,"  he  answered. 

It  is  in  her  own  drawing-room  that  a  woman  is  most 
certain  of  success.  It  is  the  battlefield  that  she  has 
herself  prepared  for  her  victories.  He  knew  that  she 
would  have  her  way. 


AN  EMINENT  MEDICAL  MAN  81 

"I'm  afraid  that  in  making  you  grateful  I  shall 
make  you  a  little  disappointed.  But  I  am  going  to 
risk  it — I  arranged  with  Durham  that  you  should  de- 
fend the  Yoghi  and  Priscilla.  I  guaranteed  the  money 
for  their  defence." 

"You!"  he  cried.  Then,  in  admiration,  he  added, 
"You  are  a  wonderful  woman !" 

"I'm  wonderfully  in  love,"  she  explained.  A  curling 
wave  of  smoke  came  from  her  lips.  "Stay  with  me." 

In  the  great  as  well  as  in  the  little  things  of  life  she 
generally  had  her  way. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    BEHAVIOUR    OF    BILLY 

DURING  the  next  few  days  Richard  devoted  himself 
to  work  with  extraordinary  diligence.  He  toiled  at  the 
details  of  his  cases,  and  especially  at  the  preparation 
of  the  forthcoming  defence  at  the  Old  Bailey. 

He  had  schooled  himself  into  the  belief  that  Ethel's 
engagement  was  a  matter  of  Fate.  He  had  found  that 
his  veto  possessed  no  force  either  with  Ethel  or  his 
mother.  He  tried  to  dismiss  the  matter  from  his  mind. 

He  spent  many  hours  in  the  Middle  Temple  Library 
and  in  the  Courts.  He  remained  until  late  at  his 
chambers,  returning  to  them  after  an  early  dinner  in 
the  Hall.  He  succeeded  in  instilling  into  himself  a 
desire  to  work  for  work's  sake.  He  pursued  work  with 
the  zeal  of  a  religion  and  the  enthusiasm  of  a  vice. 
During  these  days  he  saw  little  of  Gwendolen. 

He  had,  of  course,  congratulated  Ethel — with  such 
warmth  as  he  could  assume.  But  that  amount  had 
chilled  her.  She  had  scarcely  been  able  to  keep  back  her 
tears. 

One  morning,  as  he  was  finishing  his  breakfast  with 
her,  she  said  suddenly: 

"We  can't  go  on  like  this,  Richard." 

Her  eyes  looked  pleadingly  towards  him. 

"How  do  you  mean,  old  girl?" 

This  was  the  first  occasion  since  the  engagement  that 
he  had  spoken  kindly  to  her. 

"You  must  try  to  like  Billy — for  my  sake." 


THE  BEHAVIOUR  OF  BILLY  83 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  after  the  manner  of  a 
man  prepared  to  do  his  best,  against  his  better  judg- 
ment. 

"Besides,"  she  began. 

"Besides  what?" 

She  had  prepared  a  tentative  word  or  two  in  praise 
of  Billy.  But  now  she  felt  that  he  would  laugh  at 
her. 

"Besides,  he  likes  you  very  much,  and — "  she  felt 
that  she  was  striking  a  false  note,  "and — he  said  he 
would  give  you  all  his  firm's  work." 

"The  devil  he  did!"  cried  Richard.  This  put  the 
crowning  touch  to  his  disgust. 

He  strode  about  the  room.  Then  he  came  back  to 
his  sister,  held  her  firmly  by  the  arms,  and  looked  into 
her  eyes,  and  when  he  had  somewhat  recovered  from 
his  anger  he  said: 

"You've  done  this  for  me,  partly  for  me,  at  least." 

"Oh,  no,  no !"  she  protested. 

The  affront  was  so  outrageous  that  he  felt  he  could 
never  look  the  man  in  the  face.  Brinstable  had  preyed 
not  only  on  his  sister's  poverty,  but  on  his.  It  was 
unbearable.  Ethel  sought  for  some  explanation,  that, 
even  though  it  should  discredit  her  more  hopelessly, 
might  place  Brinstable  in  a  better  light.  The  search 
was  vain. 

"Richard,  I  must  tell  you  all." 

"Can  there  be  anything  more  to  tell  me?"  he  gasped. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  with  surprising  calmness,  speak- 
ing very  slowly.  "There  is  the  truth.  He  was  very, 
very  kind.  He  knew  how  poor  we  are  and — oh,  how 
can  I  tell  you?" 

"Go  on." 

"Well,  you  remember  when  I  was  staying  with  the 


84  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Mosensteins  at  Weybridge.  We  all  played  Bridge  a 
good  deal,  and  I  lost  a  lot  of  money.  I  didn't  mean 
to.  But  they  played  high;  and  at  first  I  won,  and 
then  I  lost  and  lost.  It  seemed  as  though  everyone 
was  making  money,  and  I  believed  that  I  should  also. 
At  last  I  found  that  I  owed  fifty  pounds.  I  couldn't 
sleep  that  night.  I  didn't  know  which  way  to  turn. 
And  he  was  very  kind." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  to  me — to  mother?"  Richard 
asked  hoarsely. 

"Oh,  Richard,  I  knew  you  hadn't  it  to  give.  And 
mother  never  has  any  money.  You  see  it  was  so  much !" 

"I'd  have  found  it — if  you'd  only  told  me — if  you'd 
only  told  me !" 

"I  did  write  to  Montie,  but  he  said  he  couldn't  man- 
age it." 

"The  brute!"  hissed  Richard. 

"But  he  wrote  me  an  awfully  nice  letter  and  said 
how  sorry  he  was." 

"He  did,  did  he?    Typewritten,  was  it?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  answered  Ethel,  instantly  on 
the  defence  of  her  favourite  brother. 

"Well,  so  Willy " 

"Who's  Willy?" 

"Mr.  Brinstable." 

"Oh !"  groaned  Richard. 

"Willy  guessed  what  was  the  matter,  and  he  was 
very  considerate,  and  said  it  was  of  no  importance. 
Mind  you,  he  behaved  quite  like  a  gentleman"  She 
purposely  emphasised  the  word  in  reply  to  his  quick 
glance.  "Really,  he  is  an  awfully  kind  man,  though 
he  is  a  little " 

"I  admit  it —  But,  thank  God,  he  behaved  like  a 
gentleman." 


THE  BEHAVIOUR  OF  BILLY  85 

"Don't  make  it  too  hard  for  me,  Richard,  please." 

"No,  bless  you,  darling." 

Ethel  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"He  was  awfully  nice  about  you.  He  said  how 
clever " 

"Damn  it,  don't  talk  about  me." 

"Of  course,  you  think  very  badly  of  him,"  she  said 
sadly,  "but,  believe  me,  Richard,"  and  she  spoke  with 
a  pathetic  look  of  enthusiasm,  "he  has  many  good 
points." 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  he  answered;  "I  shall  be  on  the 
look  out  for  them." 

It  was  as  the  result  of  this  interview  that  William 
Brinstable  came  to  dinner  at  Gloucester  Terrace  a  few 
nights  later,  to  meet  Richard. 

The  ordeal  in  the  little  dining-room  was  awkward 
for  everyone  except  Billy.  Lady  Meyville,  however, 
directed  the  conversation  on  ordinary  topics,  talk- 
ing chiefly  about  the  dramatic  enterprises  of  Mon- 
tague. 

Brinstable  professed  a  sincere  admiration  for  the 
Art  of  his  future  brother-in-law.  He  said  that  many 
of  his  clients  were  anxious  to  invest  money  in  the  Pall 
Mall  Theatre.  Although  he  had  not  as  yet  the  pleas- 
ure of  Montague's  acquaintance,  he  expressed  a  great 
desire  to  know  him. 

"Your  son,  Lady  Meyville,"  said  he,  "is  the  ideal 
gentleman  on  the  stage.  When  you  see  him  in  any  play 
he  seems  to  you  rather  a  pal  than  a  player." 

Then  he  heaved  with  fat  laughter.  "That  is  pretty 
good,  eh — 'rather  a  pal  than  a  player.'  I  do  not  have 
much  time  for  moving  in  theatrical  circles,  but  before 
the  New  Lyric  Club  was  closed  I  knew  pretty  well 
everybody." 


86  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

And  then  followed  a  florid  account  of  hilarious  nights 
spent  with  celebrated  actors — celebrated  chiefly  at  the 
New  Lyric. 

"But,  of  course,  all  that  is  over  now,"  he  added. 
"I  am  going  to  settle  down.  I  am  going  to  bury  the 
past,"  and  he  roared  with  hilarity. 

He  was  one  of  those  men  who  regard  the  obvious  as 
amusing. 

Towards  Richard  he  adopted  a  patronising  air, 
encouraging,  and,  indeed,  eulogistic. 

Billy  was  tolerant  about  the  cooking,  he  wa?s 
officiously  non-committal  about  the  wine,  and,  alto- 
gether, succeeded  in  reaching,  in  Richard's  estimation, 
a  unique  pinnacle  of  snobbishness. 

In  time  the  dinner  wore  to  its  end;  and  then,  when 
the  women  had  left  the  room,  Billy  immediately  offered 
to  put  Richard  in  the  way  of  getting  some  good  port. 
He  even  offered  to  send  him  in  a  dozen  cases,  as  he 
said,  "It  is  a  good  thing  to  be  able  to  offer  your  guests 
a  really  sound  glass  of  port." 

To  this  proposal  there  was  but  one  suitable  answer, 
to  kick  the  man  out  of  the  house.  But,  such  a  course 
being  impracticable,  Richard  only  nodded  assent. 

"Now,  let  us  get  to  business,"  said  Mr.  Brinstable. 
"Ethel  and  I  do  not  believe  in  long  engagements.  We 
are  going  to  be  married  some  time  next  month.  And 
I  think  the  marriage  ought  to  be  rather  a  swell  affair, 
don't  you?  You  know  we  cannot  very  well  be  married 
from  here.  The  house  is  very  nice,  and  all  that,  but  it 
won't  hold  the  people.  Now,  I  propose  taking  a  big 
room  at  the  Bayswater  Palace  Hotel,  and  being  mar- 
ried at  St.  Michael  and  All  Sepulchres.  Of  course,  I 
will  pay  the  exes." 

The  enthusiasm  that  he  had  expected  was  not  forth- 


THE  BEHAVIOUR  OF  BILLY  87 

coming.  Richard  simply  said  that  the  idea  was  rea- 
sonable. 

"Reasonable,  my  boy!"  replied  Brinstable.  "I  call 
it  handsome,  deuced  handsome,  and  don't  you  forget 
it.  I  daresay  it  seems  to  you  an  odd  thing.  But  Billy 
is  blunt." 

(It  was  his  practice  to  allude  to  himself  on  very 
special  occasions  in  the  third  person.) 

If  there  was  one  thing  he  plumed  himself  upon  in  a 
degree  second  only  to  his  vulgarity  it  was  his  excessive 
bluntness.  He  regarded  his  bluntness  as  an  excuse  even 
for  his  coarseness.  He  posed  as  a  person  in  whom 
there  was  no  guile.  He  was  compelled,  by  some  uncon- 
trollable natural  force,  to  tell  the  truth  on  all  occa- 
sions, no  matter  how  unpleasant  to  other  persons  or 
even  to  himself  the  telling  of  such  truth  might  be. 

"The  first  time  I  saw  your  sister,  I  said  to  myself, 
'Billy,  that  is  the  girl  for  you.  She  is  refined.  She 
is  delicate.  She  has  got  that  deuced  charm  of  manner, 
that  well-bred  pose,  that  you  want  in  a  wife,  Billy,  my 
boy.  You  are  not  in  society  yourself,  because  of  your 
bluntness.  But,  with  a  refined,  smart  girl  like  that, 
you  will  end  up  on  the  top  of  Belgravia,  and  don't 
make  any  mistake.'  That  is  what  I  said  to  myself, 
and  further  I  added,  'If  the  girl  has  got  any  money, 
so  much  the  better  for  you,  Billy,  my  boy.  But,  with 
or  without  money,  she  must  be  Mrs.  Bill,'  and  there  it 
is.  Now  your  sister's  looks  and  manners  and  refine- 
ment are  worth  more  to  me  than  any  amount  of  pounds, 
shillings  and  pence,  and  if  that  is  not  love,  ask  me 
another !" 

The  idea  of  anybody  going  to  this  individual  for  an 
opinion  on  any  one  of  the  vital  things  of  life  struck 
Richard  as  tragically  comic. 


88  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

The  absurdity  of  the  idea  swept  away  some  of  the 
tragedy. 

"You  see,  ours  is  a  real  good  business.  But  we 
want  to  enlarge  it,  want  to  spread  it,  want  to  get  as 
many  of  the  fat  things  as  we  can.  There  are  lots 
of  'em  going  about  now,  I  tell  you.  But  you  don't  get 
'em  by  sitting  at  the  office.  You  don't  get  'em  by 
sitting  down  and  doing  nothing." 

A  shudder  ran  down  Richard's  frame.  He  suspected 
that  the  other  man  was  about  to  propound  the  modern 
system  of  bringing  a  business  to  disaster. 

And,  indeed,  Brinstable  explained  that  business  was 
carried  on  chiefly  by  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  that 
launches  on  the  river,  supper-parties  at  the  Savoy, 
motors  at  Ascot,  were  the  sure  means  of  increasing  a 
sound  and  remunerative  business  connection. 

The  game  had  been  played  so  often  and  so  disas- 
trously that  it  appeared  incredible  that  another  player 
should  take  a  hand  in  it. 

And  yet  with  his  confident  gestures,  Brinstable  ex- 
pounded the  methods  by  which  he  proposed  to  extend 
his  business.  With  every  detail  that  he  described 
Richard  felt  invited  to  look  forward  to  inevitable 
ruin. 

He  did  not  care  to  cross-examine  him,  because  he 
had  no  hope  of  eliciting  any  information  of  a  reassur- 
ing nature. 

He  shivered  at  the  prospect.  He  felt  the  futility  of 
even  trying  to  "hope  for  the  best." 

Billy's  attitude  at  the  dinner-table  had  convinced 
Richard  that  his  future  brother-in-law  looked  upon  him 
as  a  negligible  factor  in  the  family  affairs,  that  he 
regarded  him,  in  fact,  as  quite  an  amateur  and  casual 
person.  It  was  intolerable  to  play  this  part  in  the 


THE  BEHAVIOUR  OF  BILLY  89 

eyes  of  a  man  whom  he  thoroughly  despised,  even  if 
he  did  not  actually  hate  him. 

But  the  other  seemed  completely  unsuspicious. 

From  his  pocket-book  he  produced  a  newspaper  cut- 
ting. 

"By  the  bye,"  he  said,  "have  you  seen  this  in  the 
Pall  Mall  to-night  ?"  and  he  handed  it  across  the  table. 

Richard  read: 

"We  have  much  pleasure  in  announcing  the  engage- 
ment of  Miss  Meyville,  the  pretty  sister  of  Mr.  Clifton- 
ville,  the  eminent  actor,  to  Mr.  William  Brinstable,  the 
popular  solicitor." 

He  handed  the  paper  back. 

"Montague  never  misses  a  chance," he  said  to  himself. 

"Now,"  Billy  pointed  out,  "I  am  particularly  anx- 
ious to  get  in  with  Mr.  Cliftonville,  or  Montie,  as  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  call  him.  We  can  do  one  another 
a  bit  of  good — give  and  take,  you  know.  We  must 
fix  up  a  little  bit  of  supper  one  of  these  nights." 

And  other  similar  statements  and  suggestions  he 
made  with  characteristic  bluntness. 

At  last,  Richard,  finding  William  beyond  him,  took 
his  future  brother-in-law  in  to  the  drawing-room. 

Throwing  himself  on  the  sofa  by  the  side  of  his 
fiancee,  Mr.  Brinstable  told  stories  relative  to  his  social 
and  financial  shrewdness.  As  he  proved  his  deliberate 
conviction  that  there  was  no  one  like  Billy  for  general 
merit,  the  eyes  of  his  three  listeners  were  riveted  on 
the  carpet. 

At  length,  the  bridegroom-elect  felt  that  his  per- 
formance was  complete,  that  he  had  impressed  his 
audience  with  the  importance  of  his  personality.  More- 
over, he  grew  hungry;  he  had  not  dined  so  sumptu- 
ouslv  as  was  his  wont. 


90  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

On  the  plea  of  a  supper  at  the  Carlton  with  business 
friends,  a  syndicate  bringing  out  a  new  iron  ore  mine, 
he  took  his  leave. 

Richard  and  his  mother  listened  to  the  sound  of 
whispered  words  and  hilarious  laughter  in  the  passage, 
as  Mr.  Brinstable  said  good-bye  to  his  betrothed. 

Then  that  gentleman  got  into  a  hansom,  and  drove 
to  his  club,  bawling  its  name  to  the  cabman. 

His  club  was  the  Junior  Constitutional. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    BEST    CLERK    IN    THE    TEMPLE 

ETHEL,  realising  that  Billy's  appearance  had  been 
a  fiasco — that  neither  her  mother  nor  Richard  was  pre- 
pared with  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  complimentary 
or  even  of  a  consolatory  comment  upon  him — decided 
to  retire  to  bed. 

Nervously,  Lady  Meyville  spoke: 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,  Richard,  to  leave  that 
thirty  pounds  for  Ethel's  dress.  I  know  you  can't 
afford  it." 

"No,  I'm  not  exactly  affluent.     I've  got  precisely  r 
£2  10*.  in  the  bank." 

"My  poor  Richard!  Oh,  if  I'd  known  things  were 
so  bad  as  that,  I  wouldn't  have  let  you  do  it."  Lady 
Meyville  continued:  "Montague  was  here  to-day,  and 
he  was  delighted  that  Ethel  was  to  be  presented.  He 
seemed  very  pleased  at  the  marriage.  So  that's  a  good 
thing,  isn't  it?  He  doesn't  exactly  know  Mr.  Brin- 
stable.  But  he  said  he'd  heard  he  was  a  good  sort. 
Those  were  Montague's  very  words.  And  you  know 
how  hard  he  is  to  please !  It  seems  that  Mr.  Brinstable 
— somehow  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  call  him  William 
yet —  She  did  not  finish  her  sentence.  "But  I 

suppose  I  shall  get  accustomed  to  him.  I'm  an  old 
woman,  and  perhaps  I'm  rather  foolish.  Anyhow,  it's  a 
comfort  to  know  that  Mr.  Brinstable  is  very  popular. 
He  goes  everywhere  in  Bayswater.  What  we  regard 
as  his  commonness,  other  people  consider  cheery  affa- 
bility." 


92  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Perhaps  Bayswater  has  overlooked  his  bluntness," 
said  Richard  grimly. 

"Of  course,  he's  not  handsome." 

"He  is  revolting." 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,"  interposed  his  mother. 

But  Richard's  indignation  carried  him  on. 

"The  thing  is  impossible.  The  man  is  impossible. 
There  never  has  been  such  a  person.  He  is  overdrawn, 
grotesque.  He  is  a  caricature  of — something  I've 
never  had  the  bad  luck  to  meet.  Even  as  I  looked  at 
him  I  said,  'This  is  a  phantom.  "Bayswater  Billy" 
is  a  thing  that  cannot  exist  either  on  earth  or  sea. 
My  good  man,  civilisation  has  never  evolved  a  thing  like 
you.  You  are  a  lampoon  on  the  English  race.  You 
appear  to  be  sitting  there,  but  you  are  not.  You  are 
as  unreal  as  the  Gorgon  or  Cacus,  or  any  of  the  mon- 
strosities that  Ulysses  baffled.' ' 

Sadly  Lady  Meyville  summed  up  the  matter  as  she 
kissed  him  good-night: 

"We  must  make  the  best  of  it.  Montague,  I'm 
afraid,  is  a — little  disappointed.  But  he  was  kind 
enough  not  to  show  it." 

Next  morning  Richard  appeared  on  behalf  of  the 
plaintiff  before  Mr.  Justice  Tufnell  in  a"running  down" 
action.  He  was  "devilling"  for  a  very  busy  common- 
law  barrister,  and,  except  for  the  opening  speech,  he 
had  to  do  the  entire  case  himself.  With  restless,  but 
effective,  energy  he  threw  himself  into  the  cross-exam- 
ination of  witnesses.  He  appeared  as  a  man  whose 
whole  object  in  life  was  to  procure  justice  for  his  client 
in  this  particular  action.  After  that,  the  heavens 
might  fall.  The  case  was  one  in  which  the  defendants, 
the  Amalgamated  Motor  Omnibus  Company,  should 
have  undoubtedly  succeeded.  But — by  means  of  the 


THE  BEST  CLERK  IN  THE  TEMPLE         93 

discreetly  personal  animus  that  he  introduced  in  the 
matter,  by  means  of  a  judiciously  melodramatic  speech 
to  the  jury — he  succeeded  in  keeping  their  minds  open. 

The  summing-up  of  Mr.  Justice  Tufnell  really 
amounted  to  this : 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  have  heard  the  case. 
The  plaintiff  is  a  poor  man.  The  defendants  are  a 
rich  company.  If,  after  the  brilliant  speech  made  by 
Mr.  Meyville,  you  think  that  a  thousand  pounds  is  too 
small  an  amount  to  award  as  compensation  for  these 
injuries,  say  so.  The  matter  lies  with  you."  He, 
however,  omitted  to  mention  his  firm  conviction  that 
every  motorist  was  a  murderer. 

The  jury  returned  a  grotesque  verdict  of  £1,500. 

Soon  after  Richard  had  returned  to  his  chambers,  his 
clerk  asked  if  he  could  see  Mr.  Moseley. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Moseley?" 

"He  used  to  be  clerk  to  Mr.  Peploe." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  him.  Good  old  John !  Is  he  hard 
up?" 

The  clerk  smothered  laughter. 

"Mr.  Moseley  hard  up,  sir?  Why,  he  married  twice 
— and  married  money  each  time.  He  is  the  richest 
clerk  in  the  Temple." 

Richard  endorsed  his  brief,  and  handed  it  to  Jubb. 

"Take  that  to  Mr.  Johnson's  chambers.  Show  Mr. 
Moseley  in." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  clerk  shambled  out. 

"Ugh !  what  a  room  to  work  in !"  said  Richard,  as 
he  looked  at  the  threadbare  carpet,  worn  from  blue 
to  grey,  the  forty  pounds'  worth  of  law-books  that 
made  a  feeble  show  on  the  shelves,  and  the  general  air 
of  poverty  in  the  place.  Warm  with  the  triumph  of 


94  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

the  morning,  a  sensation  of  chill  seized  him  as  he  real- 
ised the  dull  drabness  of  his  surroundings.  He  looked 
at  himself  in  the  glass  above  the  mantelpiece.  There 
was  a  red  line  where  his  wig  had  pressed  on  his  fore- 
head. He  had  not  troubled  to  brush  his  hair  in  the 
robing-room  at  the  Law  Courts.  His  tie  was  askew. 

"Hang  it !"  he  commented,  "I  look  over  forty." 

Then  he  sat  down  at  the  table  and  inspected  the  few 
thin  briefs  that  lay  upon  it.  They  were  nearly  all 
other  men's  cases — about  three  days'  hard  work,  and 
very  little  pay  except  experience. 

Mr.  Moseley,  a  rotund,  middle-aged  person,  broad- 
shouldered  and  heavily  built,  with  a  jovial  face  and 
shrewd  eyes — his  large,  thick  nostrils  made  his  nose 
seem  shorter  than  it  was — he  looked  like  a  rural  dean 
in  mufti,  entered  the  room: 

"Good-morning,  sir." 

"Good-morning,  John.     What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"I've  decided  to  come  back  to  work." 

"To  work?"  he  asked,  in  surprise.  "Haven't  you 
made  a  fortune?" 

"I  haven't  done  badly,  sir.  But  the  Temple  is  the 
Temple.  You  can't  get  away  from  it.  I  was  eight 
years  with  Mr.  Ulmack.  Before  that  I  was  with  Mr. 
Banskin,  K.C.  You  don't  remember  him,  sir.  When 
I  was  ten  I  was  junior  clerk  to  Mr.  Justice  Wil- 
braham,  as  he  is  now.  And  I  can't  somehow  settle  down 
outside  the  old  place." 

His  experience  was  a  not  uncommon  one.  There  is 
about  the  Temple  something  of  the  same  fascination 
that  the  Universities  exercise  on  the  undergraduate. 
But  Oxford  and  Cambridge  are  to  us  only  stopping- 
places  on  the  road  of  life.  A  young  man  who  begins 
his  career  in  the  Temple  works  there  till  the  day  of 


THE  BEST  CLERK  IN  THE  TEMPLE         95 

his  death.  It  is  a  citadel  of  romance  in  a  city  of 
commerce.  John  Moseley  had  made  in  fees  about  £800 
a  year  in  the  service  of  Theodore  Ulmack,  a  fashion- 
able "silk."  Ulmack  had  died  suddenly  of  heart  trou- 
ble, assisted  by  ill-digested  success — uninsured,  having 
saved  nothing,  and  leaving  a  wife  and  family  dependent 
on  the  Barristers'  Benevolent  Association.  Thereupon 
John,  a  widower  without  children,  retired  from  the 
business  and  bought  a  villa  at  Chiswick.  But  the  spell 
of  the  Temple  was  upon  him.  One  day  he  looked  in 
at  the  Law  Courts  to  see  his  old  friends.  They  were 
delighted  to  meet  him,  for  he  was  almost  an  institution, 
known  and  respected  by  judges,  law  officers,  and  junior 
counsel,  regarded  as  the  apotheosis  of  success  by  the 
most  juvenile  of  barristers'  clerks,  alert  little  fellows* 
like  boy  messengers  out  of  uniform. 

His  visits  became  more  frequent,  till  at  last  he 
attended  regularly  from  the  moment  the  Courts  opened 
until  they  closed. 

"Who  is  the  lucky  man  who  has  secured  your  serv- 
ices?" asked  Richard. 

"Well,  that  is  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about. 
I  thought,  perhaps,  you  might  take  me  on,  sir." 

"I !  Good  heavens !"  Richard  answered  in  astonish- 
ment. "I  don't  make  three  hundred  a  year.  I  hardly 
pay  the  ten  guineas  I  guarantee  Mr.  Kendal's  clerk 
out  of  my  fees." 

"I  know,  sir.  But  for  the  last  six  months  I've  seen 
you  in  Court,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  I  admire  your 
work.  I'm  a  bit  of  a  sportsman  myself,  and,  if  I  may 
use  the  expression,  I'll  back  you.  You're  bound  to  do 
well." 

A  look  of  amused  pride  came  into  Richard's  face. 
This  was  a  brilliant  omen. 


96  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Yes,"  the  clerk  continued,  speaking  seriously, 
almost  with  eagerness,  "I've  watched  you,  and  I've 
watched  other  men.  Lots  of  them  start  well,  with  back- 
ing and  brains.  They  go  up  like  rockets  and  then 
suddenly  they  disappear,  and  you  never  hear  of  them 
again.  But  you,  sir — if  you  will  pardon  me — are 
going  to  be  a  big  success  if  you  stick  to  it." 

"Thank  you,  John;  it's  very  kind  of  you.  But,  as 
I've  said,  I  can't  afford  you." 

"May  I  sit  down,  sir?" 

"Certainly." 

Earnestly  and  rapidly  John  spoke: 

"All  the  solicitors  I  know,  and  I  know  them  all — all 
the  good  ones ;  and  in  the  whole  course  of  my  career  I 
have  never  taken  in  a  brief  that  hasn't  been  paid  for — 
say  that  they  can't  get  hold  of  a  first-class  common- 
law  junior.  You're  the  man.  I'm  sure  of  it — sure  as 
I  sit  here.  If  I  was  your  clerk,  I'd  get  you  two  thou- 
sand a  year  without — without  standing  a  drink." 

"But  I've  no  money,  no  capital.  I  can't  do  it.  I 
only  pay  £25  a  year  for  this  room  and  a  share  in  the 
telephone.  And  there  isn't  accommodation  in  the  place 
for  another  clerk." 

"You  must  move." 

"Don't  talk  about  it.  It's  a  delightful  prospect. 
But  it's  not  possible.  In  three  years,  perhaps." 

"In  three  years'  time  the  place  may  be  taken.  Now 
is  the  chance." 

"I  see  the  chance,  John,  but  I  don't  see  the  possi- 
bility." 

"May  I  explain  it?" 

"I  wish  you  would." 

"There's  a  good  set  of  chambers  on  the  ground  floor 
at  No.  14  in  this  court,"  said  John.  "They  want  a 


THE  BEST  CLERK  IN  THE  TEMPLE         97 

hundred  and  twenty  for  it.  Good  airy  room,  good 
clerk's  room,  and  two  waiting-rooms.  You  must  have 
two  waiting-rooms." 

"Why  must  I  have  two  waiting-rooms?" 

"Because  there  must  always  be  someone  waiting  in 
the  room  the  client  isn't  shown  into." 

"I  see,"  answered  Richard,  with  a  smile. 

"Then  a  decent  lot  of  law  books  will  cost  three 
hundred  pounds.  Furniture  and  doing  up,  say  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty.  If  I  were  you,  sir,  I  shouldn't  have 
Vanity  Fair  cartoons  of  judges.  They're  overdone. 
I  should  have  nothing  but  books — and  briefs.  They 
are  the  best  furniture  for  a  barrister's  room.  I  could 
pick  up  almost  for  nothing  a  library  of  showy,  useless 
books." 

"I  have  no  doubt  your  views  are  entirely  accurate, 
still " 

John  interposed: 

"I  propose,  if  you  will  allow  me,  to  set  you  up  in 
these  chambers — within  the  next  fortnight." 

The  proposition  was  startling. 

In  his  astonishment  Richard  rose  from  his  chair. 
He  gazed  at  the  clerk  as  though  questioning  his  sanity. 

"Are  you  serious  ?" 

"Absolutely.  And  I  am  serious  in  guaranteeing  you 
two  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  work  before  Christ- 
mas." 

"Why  should  you  do  this  for  me?"  he  asked,  still 
amazed  at  the  unconventional  proposition  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  had  been  placed  before  him. 

"First,  because  you  are  the  best  man  that  I  can  see. 
A  clerk's  position  is  always  a  bit  of  a  gamble.  His 
governor  may  die,  or  his  work  may  drop  off,  or  he  may 
take  to  drink — or  a  thousand  and  one  things  may 


98  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

happen.  For  instance,  he  may  make  a  mistake  in  his 
marriage.  Or,  worse  still,  he  may  appear  in  the 
Divorce  Court.  And  that  is  the  end  of  him.  Besides, 
I  want  to  make  money — for  a  reason  which  I  need  not 
enter  into.  There  is  only  one  way  of  making  money — 
speculation.  I  propose  to  speculate  in  the  only  thing 
I  understand — the  profession.  If  you  accept  my 
offer " 

"I  should  pay  you  back,  of  course.  But  I  can  give 
you  no  security." 

Recognising  his  advantage,  Moseley  seized  it. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  paid  back.  I  want  you  to  give 
me  double  the  ordinary  clerk's  fees  for  five  years,  and 
then  my  remuneration  shall  be  on  the  usual  scale." 

"Double  fees  might  amount  to — well,  to  a  great 
deal  of  money  if  you  were,  so  to  speak,  my  impres- 
sario." 

"I  hope  so,  I  am  sure,  sir." 

For  a  minute  Richard  looked  hard  at  the  clerk. 
Then  he  said: 

"I'll  do  it." 

"I  am  very  glad  of  it,  sir.  We  shall  be  at  Number 
14  within  a  fortnight.  We  can  give  up  this  room  at 
once,  even  if  we  have  to  make  a  slight  loss.  We  can 
afford  to  do  it." 

Richard  smiled  at  the  use  of  the  word  "we."  Already 
Moseley  regarded  himself  in  the  light  of  a  partner. 

As  John  was  turning  to  leave,  his  eyes  glanced 
approvingly  at  a  large  stack  of  papers  on  a  side-table. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  eagerly  at 
its  bulk.  His  face  fell  when  he  saw  it  was  the  case 
of  the  Yoghi  and  Priscilla. 

"I  think  you're  making  a  great  mistake — if  I  may 
say  so." 


THE  BEST  CLERK  IN  THE  TEMPLE         99 

"Of  course  you  may  say  so.     But  why?" 

"It  can't  do  you  any  good.  They're  a  dead  case. 
I  hope  you  don't  intend  to  have  a  row  with  the  judge. 
That  sort  of  thing  is  played  out.  It  never  did  a  coun- 
sel any  good  yet,  not  in  the  long  run." 

"I  don't  intend  to  have  a  row  with  anybody.  I 
intend  to  raise  a  point  of  law,  and  within  half  an  hour 
the  prisoners  will  be  discharged." 

"Might  I  inquire  what  the  point  of  law  is?"  Moseley 
asked,  somewhat  sceptically. 

"Certainly." 

Richard  explained  it. 

The  clerk  thought  for  a  minute.  Then  he  said  de- 
cisively : 

"No,  sir.  Fight  the  case  for  all  it's  worth.  Cross- 
examine  every  witness  at  great  length.  Spin  it  out  for 
a  week  or  two  weeks.  Keep  your  name  before  the  public. 
Let  them  read  about  you  at  breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea. 
You  are  single-handed  against  the  Solicitor-General 
and  the  Treasury  counsel.  And  be  very  polite  to  the 
Solicitor-General.  Then  raise  your  point  of  law  after- 
wards. This  is  a  big  thing.  It  will  do  for  you  what 
the  Penge  case  did  for  Edward  Clarke.  Good-day  to 
you,  sir." 

Having  given  this  admirable  advice,  John  went 
away,  jubilant  at  the  idea  of  returning  to  work. 

He  had  not  mentioned  that  the  real  reason  of  the 
partnership  was  his  desire  to  increase  his  income  for 
the  benefit  of  his  late  master's  family. 

Except  for  the  bare  necessaries  of  life,  the  brilliant 
Mr.  Neville's  widow  and  children  were  entirely  depend- 
ent on  John  Moseley. 


CHAPTER  X 

A    DINNER    PARTY 

RICHARD  had  scarcely  realised  the  importance  of  the 
good  fortune  that  Moseley  had  brought  him,  when 
Jubb  entered. 

"Mrs.  Ainslie  wishes  to  speak  to  you  on  the  tele- 
phone, sir." 

He  went  into  the  clerk's  room. 

"Hello!" 

"Is  that  you,  Richard?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  love  me  as  much  as  ever?" 

"Fifty  times  as  much." 

"Sure?" 

"Sure.     Is  that  what  you  rang  me  up  about?" 

"No,  darling.     I  want  to  kiss  you." 

"Nonsense,  you  can't  by  telephone." 

"Come  to  dinner  to-night — to  make  up  sixteen — ten 
minutes  early — before  the  other  people.  But  I  warn 
you  dulness  will  reign.  It's  one  of  my  duty  dinners. 
No,  come  at  a  quarter-past  eight." 

"All  right.     Are  you  looking  pretty  to-day?" 

"Normal,  dear.  I  don't  frighten  the  horses.  By 
the  bye " 

"What?" 

"I  worship  you." 

"Continue  in  that  course,  and  all  will  be  well." 

"Am  I  your  favourite  person?" 


A  DINNER  PARTY  101 

"Absolutely.  I  prefer  you  to  all  others.  I  place 
you  pretty  high  up  in  Class  A." 

"Be  serious." 

"No  one  could  be  more  so." 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  you  always  sound  so 
American  through  the  telephone." 

"It's  an  American  invention." 

"Do  /  sound  American?" 

"No,  you  sound  like  the  flutter  of  angels'  wings, 
accompanied  by  harps  and  rather  loud  cymbals.  Does 
that  please  you?" 

"No.  Get  back  to  your  work.  You  seem  in  very 
good  spirits  to-day.  Has  anything  happened?" 

"Yes." 

"Tell  me." 

"No,  not  now." 

"Tell  me  first." 

"I'm  going  to  ring  off." 

"Are  you  sure  I'm  your  favourite  per — 

Smiling,  he  rang  off.  He  was  one  of  those  persons 
who  when  telephoning  employ  as  much  facial  expression 
as  if  the  instrument  were  actually  the  recipient  of  the 
message. 

Then  he  noticed  that  Jubb  had  been  sitting  in  the 
room  during  this  intellectual  conversation. 

"Confound  you !  I  didn't  know  you  were  here."  He 
hoped  he  had  not  been  very  idiotic.  But  the  lovers  had 
gradually  invented  a  sort  of  code  for  affectionate  con- 
versation. Mrs.  Ainslie  had  long  ago  established  her 
claim  to  be  regarded  as  Richard's  "favourite  person." 
She  had  also  acquired  a  curious  courtesy  title,  "Queen 
of  all  possible  puss-cats,"  by  which  she  set  great  store. 
These  endearments  sound  nonsensical  in  cold  print. 
But  nowadays  the  language  of  love,  in  reaction  against 


102  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

the  affectation  of  verse  and  the  high-flown  sentiment  of 
romance,  has  become  inane.  No  pair  of  lovers  whose 
conversation  was  reproduced  by  a  gramophone  could 
hope  to  convince  a  Master  in  Lunacy  that  they  were 
mentally  sound.  Richard,  however,  was  pleased  that 
in  the  hearing  of  Jubb  he  had  not  specified  Gwendolen's 
exact  position  in  cat  circles.  Still,  the  clerk  had  heard 
more  than  enough  to  convince  him  that  Mr.  Meyville 
and  Mrs.  Ainslie  regarded  one  another  with  an  affec- 
tion superfluous  in  an  unmarried  couple. 

Punctually  at  a  quarter-past  eight  Richard  was 
shown  into  the  drawing-room  in  Green  Street,  where 
Wilfred  received  him  with  painful  enthusiasm. 

He  rose  laboriously  from  his  chair. 

"Glad  you've  come  early,  Richard.  I  want  to  have 
a  word  with  you.  It's  right  that  you  should  know  I 
am  feeling  far  from  well." 

He  made  this  statement  with  the  air  of  one  impart- 
ing a  valuable  diplomatic  secret. 

"What  is  it  now?" 

This  formed  a  safe  interrogatory.  For  Mr.  Ainslie 
was  liable  to  take  grave  offence  if  one  inquired  about 
his  lumbago  when  he  imagined  that  he  was  suffering 
from  double  dyspepsia,  or  about  his  asthma  when  nasal 
catarrh  was  the  carte  du  jour. 

With  intense  secrecy  he  answered: 

"I  don't  know;  frankly,  I'm  baffled.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  am  really  anxious  about  myself." 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  What  are  your  symp- 
toms?" 

Testily  the  host  replied: 

"Symptoms !  What's  the  good  of  telling  you  my 
symptoms?  I  should  have  to  explain  the  whole  course 
of  my  disease.  It  is  sufficient  for  you  to  know  that  I 


A  DINNER  PARTY  103 

don't  understand  what  is  the  matter  with  me.  I  doubt 
if  I  shall  be  able  to  sit  through  dinner.  If  I  can't 
manage  it,  you  must  be  host.  Don't  you  mention  a 
word  to  anybody  about  how  ill  I  really  am.  I  don't 
want  people  to  be  alarmed." 

Richard  knew  that  Wilfred  wished  to  give  each  of 
his  guests  a  detailed  account  of  his  symptoms,  in  which 
he  possessed  a  sort  of  copyright,  so  he  promised  not  to 
mention  the  matter. 

At  this  moment  Gwendolen,  accompanied  by  her 
Pekinese  spaniel,  "Keir  Hardie,"  entered  the  room. 

Dressed  in  a  beautiful  white  satin  gown,  and  wear- 
ing a  necklace  of  emeralds,  she  was  looking  her  best, 
and  her  triumphant  bearing  proved  her  complete  satis- 
faction with  herself.  Yet  she  threw  at  her  lover  a 
glance  asking  for  corroboration.  Instantly  she  read 
enthusiastic  approval  in  his  eyes,  and  became  a  com- 
pletely happy  woman.  He  was  pleased  with  her;  he 
would  be  pleased  with  her  dinner;  he  would  like  some 
of  her  guests.  Obviously,  therefore,  he  would  be 
pleased  with  himself.  To  make  her  lover  thoroughly 
pleased  with  himself  is  the  ambition  of  every  woman 
who  loves — judiciously. 

"I  think  I  will  go  up  and  take  a  dose  of  pepsine," 
said  Wilfred  thoughtfully.  "It  is  quite  on  the  cards 
that  I  shall  eat  something  at  dinner  that  may  disagree 
with  me." 

Gwendolen  commended  his  forethought,  which  an- 
noyed him  a  little. 

He  protested: 

"Gwen,  you  are  always  talking  as  though  I  didn't 
take  reasonable  care  of  myself." 

"My  dear  Willy,  no  one  would  ever  reproach  you  on 
that  account,"  she  said  soothingly.  "The  trouble  you 


104  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

take  about  yourself  is  really  wonderful.  Everybody 
wonders  at  it." 

"I'm  hanged  if  I'll  be  dictated  to,"  he  snapped  with 
tetchy  irrelevance.  "If  I  don't  understand  my  case, 
who  does?  Who  the  devil  does?  And  to-day  I  begin 
to  doubt  whether  even  I  do  or  not." 

"Oh,  Willy,  you  do.     You  know  you  do." 

Then  he  went  upstairs  to  dabble  in  medicaments. 

"Do  you  think  I  look  well,  Richard,  my  Richard?" 

"Queenly." 

"Kiss  me,  please." 

He  took  her  firmly  in  his  arms.  She  felt  that  he 
admired  her  and  purred  with  contentment. 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  your  husband, 
Mrs.  Wilfred?" 

It  was  often  his  whim,  when  holding  her  in  his  arms, 
to  call  her  by  her  married  name.  A  certain  humorous 
piquancy  was  given  to  his  usurpation  of  the  husband's 
privileges  by  his  politeness  in  addressing  her  as  "Mrs. 
Wilfred." 

She  laughed,  a  happy,  quivering  laugh. 

"Nothing.  He  will  enjoy  himself  thoroughly  to- 
night. He  sits  between  Lady  Vera  Mufflin  and  Mrs. 
Craven-Hill.  They  will  listen  to  him.  Each  is  a  some- 
what celebrated  sufferer  in  her  way.  They  will  make 
a  Trinity  of  internal  troubles.  But  Willy  will  baffle 
them  both  completely.  He's  invented  a  lot  of  new  ail- 
ments for  next  season." 

"Really  good  Spring  novelties?" 

"The  best  he's  ever  had.  But  he's  made  a  discovery 
of  great  importance.  According  to  The  Lancet,  any 
man  with  one-tenth  of  his  diseases  is,  ipso  facto,  dead. 
Willy  is  delighted  at  being,  theoretically,  a  corpse." 

"That's  a  cheery  way  to  take  one's  pleasure !" 


A  DINNER  PARTY  105 

"Ah,  but  it's  a  great  triumph  for  him,  for  this  rea- 
son: his  continued  existence  proves  that  Medical  Sci- 
ence is  a  fraud." 

"But  do  you  mean  to  say,  my  dear,  that  there  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  him  at  all?" 

"Of  course,  no  one  can  be  really  well  who  turns 
himself  into  a  medicine-chest.  And  Willy  is  a  peram- 
bulating drug-store.  If  he  were  to  give  up  taking 
medicines,  he  would  be  as  well  as  you  or  I.  But  then 
he'd  have  nothing  to  do.  He's  never  had  any  profes- 
sion or  any  hobby  except  this  sort  of  hygienic  sui- 
cide." 

At  length  Willy  returned  with  the  resigned  smile  of 
a  stout-hearted  but  hopeless  sufferer.  The  leading  suf- 
ferer of  our  day. 

As  the  guests  appeared  his  demeanour  became 
pathetic. 

"How  are  you,  Mr.  Ainslie?" 

With  ghoulish  glee,  he  answered: 

"Worse  than  ever,  thanks." 

"Delighted  to  see  you,  Lady  Vera ;   I'm  terribly  ill." 

"You  must  excuse  me,  Lord  Lashbridge,  but  I'm 
hardly  in  a  condition  to  sit  up  at  dinner." 

"My  dear  Lady  Pamela,  I'm  glad  you're  looking  so 
well.  I'm  just  able  to  come  down  to  dinner.  That  is 
all.  I  hope  to  be  well  and  strong  in  a  year  or  two — 
with  great  care,  but  I  doubt  it." 

And  so  on. 

He  behaved  as  though  at  any  moment  he  might  issue 
invitations  to  his  funeral. 

So  depressing  a  man  would  never  have  been  tolerated 
except  for  his  wife — or  as  a  joke. 

Lord  Lashbridge  had  described  him  as  the  grimmest 
jest  in  May  fair. 


106  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Sir  James  Tufnell  remarked  to  Richard: 

"I  believe  our  host  would  positively  enjoy  being  sen- 
tenced to  death." 

"I  think  not,  unless  he  could  be  present  at  the 
inquest." 

Richard  took  down  Lady  Pamela  1'Estocq,  a  beauti- 
ful fair  girl,  whom  he  had  never  met  before.  She  had 
dreamy  grey  eyes,  an  exquisite  complexion.  Though 
her  mouth  was  large,  it  was  singularly  expressive.  Her 
hair,  however,  formed  her  most  striking  charm,  and 
was  arranged  with  apparently  accidental  art.  The 
sudden  interest  excited  in  her  eyes  when  he  was  intro- 
duced to  her  convinced  him  that  she  knew  that  he  was 
to  defend  the  Yoghi.  It  seemed  to  him  more  or  less 
revolting  that  all  girls  should  be  more  or  less  familiar 
with  the  main  details  of  this  appalling  case. 

Clearly  she  suppressed  a  question  that  was  on  the 
tip  of  her  tongue.  He  was  glad  of  it. 

On  his  left  sat  Mrs.  Cyrus  B.  Lough,  one  of  the 
Americans  who  had  discovered  the  intense  inferiority 
of  London  to  New  York.  She,  it  was,  who  had  done 
all  the  neat  things  at  Newport.  She  had  invented  the 
celebrated  "Lunatic  Dinner,"  at  which  all  the  guests 
were  supposed  to  behave  like  lunatics.  The  success  of 
their  efforts  in  this  direction  had  made  the  affair  a 
triumph,  and  had  even  roused  the  envy  of  Mrs.  Van- 
Astor-Gould.  A  "Tramp  and  Trianon"  supper  for 
millionaires  disguised  as  tramps  and  millionairesses 
dressed  in  Watteau  costumes  had  pleased  many.  Her 
"skunk"  party,  however,  was  her  chef  d'aeuvre.  She 
was  so  ultra-double-chinned  that  she  appeared  more 
than  double-breasted. 

In  a  loud  voice,  speaking  with  an  accent  like  a  banjo, 
she  laid  down  the  law  in  indifferent  grammar  on  men 


A  DINNER  PARTY  107 

and  things  and  cities.     Apropos  of  theatres  she  said: 

"No,  I  can't  stand  Cliftonville  anyways.  In  the 
first  place,  he's  got  his  eyes  on  one  side  of  his  face,  and 
his  nose  on  the  other.  And  yet  all  the  women  flock  to 
see  him  en  masse,  as  the  Roman  Catholics  say.  I  don't 
need  to  pay  twenty  dollars  for  a  box  to  see  Clifton- 
ville. I  can  go  into  Marshall  and  Snelgrove's  and  see 
two  hundred  floor-walkers  like  him  any  day  of  .the 
week.  He's  what  you  call  over  here  a  shop-walker,  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  him." 

She  had  spoken  rapidly,  and  her  huge  breast  heaved 
like  a  sea  of  diamonds  from  the  effort.  There  was  an 
uncomfortable  pause.  No  one  even  had  the  courage 
to  point  out  that,  following  the  custom  of  awkward 
pauses,  it  had  occurred  at  precisely  twenty  minutes  to 
the  hour. 

"My  brother  is  a  rather  good  actor  in  some  parts," 
said  Richard,  willing  to  treat  the  matter  fairly. 

"I  consider  him  the  best  actor  on  the  English  stage," 
Lady  Pamela  insisted,  looking  somewhat  indignantly 
at  the  literally  built  American. 

"Why!"  said  she.  "Sakes  alive!  I'd  no  more  idea, 
Mr.  Meyville,  that  he  was  your  brother  than  anything 
in  the  world !  I'm  real  pained  if  I've  said  anything  to 
hurt  you." 

"Not  in  the  least,  I  assure  you." 

"Mind  you,  I  like  him  personally.  He's  real  refined 
in  a  drawing-room,  but  he  don't  know  any  more  about 
acting  than  an  emu  knows  about  envelopes.  So  Clif- 
tonville is  not  his  real  name?" 

"No,  it's  the  real  name  of  a  Margate  hotel.  I  fancy 
my  brother  overlooked  the  fact  when  he  adopted  it." 

Then  Lady  Pamela  claimed  his  attention. 

"I  think  I've  seen  your  brother  in  every  piece  that 


108  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

he's  played  in  since  I  left  school.  He's  perfectly  fas- 
cinating." 

She  was  deeply  enamoured  of  Montague.  In  her 
boudoir  there  were  no  fewer  than  forty  of  his  photo- 
graphs, and  she  used  no  picture  postcards  that  did  not 
bear  his  portrait.  To  her  girl  friends  she  openly 
avowed  her  deep  love  for  the  actor. 

The  worship  of  an  actor  is  among  the  most  harmless 
outlets  for  a  girl's  affections.  It  is,  of  course,  out  of 
date,  but  it  is  not  likely  to  be  disastrous.  Lady  Pamela 
was  one  of  the  few  matinee  girls  suffering  from  Picture- 
postkarditis  to  be  found  in  the  upper  circles, 

Gwendolen  had  told  her  that  she  would  be  taken 
down  by  Montague's  brother,  and  it  was  on  account  of 
Richard's  relationship  to  the  proprietor  of  the  Pall 
Mall  Theatre  that  she  had  evinced  so  much  interest  on 
being  introduced  to  him. 

Throughout  the  dinner  she  talked  of  nothing  but  the 
actor.  How  often  Richard  saw  him,  and  where  and 
what  his  chambers  were  like,  and  the  most  trivial  details 
of  his  life  in  Gloucester  Terrace.  But  her  questions 
were  not  put  directly.  She  led  Richard  on  to  talk  while 
keeping  the  conversation  in  the  channel  that  alone 
interested  her. 

"My  father  knows  Mr.  Cliftonville  very  well,  but  I've 
never  met  him.  You  know,  my  father  is  very  peculiar 
about  some  things.  For  instance,  he  will  never  have 
actors  in  the  house." 

"But  Lord  Lashbridge  belongs  to  the  Beefsteak,"  he 
said.  "Aren't  there  some  of  them  there?" 

"I  know,  but  I  think  he  still  holds  the  old  'rogue  and 
vagabond'  theory.  Isn't  it  a  shame?  In  some  things 
he  is  so  old-fashioned  that  he  is  ulta-modern.  I  must 
introduce  you  after  dinner.  I'm  sure  you'll  like  him." 


A  DINNER  PARTY  109 

At  that  moment  Lord  Lashbridge  was  talking  to 
Lady  Kytnow,  the  wife  of  Sir  Andrew  Kytnow,  a  poli- 
tician who  had  obtained  his  baronetcy  by  a  judicious 
combination  of  stupidity  and  Scotchness,  on  the 
strength  of  which  he  wore  a  full  set  of  "Let-us-pray" 
whiskerettes.  She  was  a  specialist  in  liaisons.  She  had 
aptly  been  called  the  Divorce  Court  Debrett.  She 
always  knew  what  man  was  in  love  with  what  woman, 
and  for  what  reason.  Her  own  lack  of  experience  had 
compelled  her  to  take  an  interest  in  the  affairs  of  other 
people.  For  it  was  not  possible  that  she  could  ever 
have  been  fond  of  Sir  Andrew  Kytnow,  who,  as  member 
for  South  Bayswater,  had,  even  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, acquired  such  a  reputation  for  dulness  that  it 
amounted  almost  to  genius.  And  he  was  just  as  dull 
in  private  life.  Also,  she  was  so  conspicuously  plain 
that  no  word  had  ever  been  uttered  against  her  reputa- 
tion. Beautiful  women  are  the  players  in  the  theatre 
of  life.  Plain  women  are  the  critics.  They  applaud 
the  most  indifferent  actors.  But  they  are  very  bitter 
in  their  condemnation  of  the  actresses.  They  can  "see 
nothing"  in  them!  Lady  Kytnow  was  one  of  those 
pessimistic  dowagers  who,  having  eaten  of  the  Tree 
of  Life,  are  now  as  goddesses,  knowing  only  evil. 

"It  has  been  going  on  for  three  years — precisely 
three  years  in  July.  And  nobody  seems  to  mind." 
This  she  said  a  little  severely,  and  not  entirely  accu- 
rately. 

"Some  women  are  not  allowed  to  look  over  a  hedge, 
I  know,"  explained  Lashbridge.  "But  I  fancy  the  rea- 
son is  that  they  look  over  it  in  such  an  offensive  way. 
While  other  women  are  allowed  to  spend  the  entire 
winter  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge — at  Monte  Carlo 
or  anywhere  else — and  no  one  cares  twopence  about  it." 


110  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"And  she's  older  than  he  is." 

"A  woman  is  as  young  as  her  lover  can  make  her 
feel.  Besides,  how  old  is  Mrs.  Ainslie?  Thirty-one?" 

"Thirty-two,  to  be  precise." 

"By  all  means,  let  us  arrive  at  precision.  Young 
Meyville  is,  I  take  it,  about  thirty.  I  think  their  ages 
are  most  suitable.  My  son,  Ventnor,  is  eighteen.  He 
is  in  love  with  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Roehampton. 
She  is  his  senior  by  about  thirty  years.  Still,  she  is  a 
very  well-preserved  woman.  And  they  tell  me  that  she 
is  quite  desperately  in  love  with  him.  However,  I  doubt 
whether  anything  will  come  of  it.  But,  she  has 
spoilt  Ventnor's  cricket.  Last  year,"  he  continued 
as  an  explanation,  "her  presence  at  the  Eton  and 
Harrow  match  so  embarrassed  him  that  he  failed  to 
score." 

Very  bitterly  and  precisely  Lady  Kytnow  inter- 
j  ected : 

"The  Dowager  Duchess  has  been  in  love  with  my 
nephew,  Captain  Cardew,  since  February  of  last  year." 

"Since  February !     You  astound  me !" 

"Yes;  I  saw  them  at  the  Palace  Theatre  together," 
she  said,  through  tight-shut  lips. 

"Not  alone!" 

"There  were  other  people  in  the  box.  But  I  was  not 
deceived.  I  was  in  the  box  above.  It  was  the  four- 
teenth of  February,  my  birthday,"  she  said,  as  though 
that  interesting  fact  made  it  worse.  "I  remember  per- 
fectly well." 

Lady  Kytnow  had  trained  her  memory  to  such  a 
degree  of  discriminating  perfection  that  she  never  for- 
got to  forget  anything  pleasant  about  anybody. 

"Good  heavens !"  said  he,  "you  mustn't  tell  Ventnor. 
I  am  so  delighted  to  hear  that  his  case  is  hopeless. 


A  DINNER  PARTY  111 

He  must  never  find  out.  Anything  that  keeps  a  boy — 
who  will  be  a  peer — away  from  the  Gaiety  is  to  be 
encouraged.  I  am  not  so  ambitious  as  to  hope  that 
my  boy  will  select  his  Countess  from  the  chorus.  But, 
tell  me,  you  with  your  knowledge  are  sure  to  know,  will 
this  affair  of  Mrs.  Ainslie's  last?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  will." 

Becoming  more  bitter,  she  added,  apparently  as  an 
indictment : 

"They  are  so  extraordinarily  happy." 

"Yes,  I  should  say  they  are  well  suited.  They're 
both  good-looking.  She  is  charming,  and  the  young 
man,  they  say,  is  going  to  rise.  But  how  about  Mr. 
Ainslie?  What  view  does  he  take?" 

"I  oughtn't  to  tell  you." 

"Well,  if  he  told  you,  surely  you  can  tell  me." 

"He  didn't." 

She  compromised  and  whispered. 

"Oh,  ah!"  he  laughed.  "He's  that  sort  of  man,  is 
he?  Well,  then  nobody  can  object."  Bending  his  head 
courteously,  he  said,  "Except  you,  dear  Lady  Kytnow. 
You  are  privileged." 

Pleased,  but  bewildered,  the  lady  continued: 

"Of  course,  she  married  him  for  his  money.  He  has 
twenty  thousand  a  year." 

"Ah,  but  he  squanders  it  on  patent  medicines." 

"They  are  his  one  luxury,"  replied  Lady  Kytnow, 
who  was  always  literal.  "He's  a  great  sufferer.  He 
has  talked  to  me  by  the  hour  about  his  sufferings.  I 
doubt  if  he  will  be  with  us  long." 

"Nonsense.  He  always  reminds  me  of  Clement  XIV., 
who  poisoned  himself  by  taking  too  many  antidotes 
against  poison.  There's  nothing  whatever  the  matter 
with  him.  One  of  these  days  Mr.  Ainslie  will  be  too 


112  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

seedy  to  take  any  medicine,  and  then  he'll  recover  imme- 
diately." 

Completely  mystified,  this  delightful  woman  took  ref- 
uge in  an  eminent  Agnostic  archdeacon  on  her  other  side. 

When  the  ladies  had  left  the  table,  Richard  enjoyed 
a  very  gratifying  sensation.  Tufnell  beckoned  him  to 
his  side,  and  introduced  him  to  Lord  Lashbridge. 
Kytnow  from  across  the  table  interrogated  him  on  the 
Yoghi  case  in  his  most  unintelligent  House  of  Com- 
mons manner. 

"Tell  me,  are  these  people  guilty  or  not?" 

"I'll  tell  you  after  the  trial,  Sir  Andrew." 

"I  very  much  doubt  whether  you  will,"  said  Lord 
Lashbridge.  "Suppose,  by  any  possibility,  you  get 
your  clients  off,  you're  not  going  to  admit  the  truth — 
that  they  are  guilty." 

"You  may  take  it  from  me,"  Tufnell  interrupted 
judicially,  "that  if  they  are  acquitted  they  are  more 
innocent  than  any  middle-aged  persons  have  ever  yet 
succeeded  in  being." 

"You  don't  give  me  much  hope,  Sir  James,"  said 
Richard,  as  he  lighted  a  cigar. 

"I'd  give  'em  fifteen  years  each,"  replied  the  judge. 
"And  if  you  get  'em  off,  which  you  won't,  I'd  give 
you  penal  servitude  for  life.  Don't  you  think  so? 
Yes." 

And  the  judge  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  grunting 
heartily,  for  with  him  a  grunt  was  the  equivalent  of 
boisterous  laughter. 

For  half  an  hour  the  men  sought  from  Richard  veri- 
fication of  unreported  details  which  were  in  circulation 
at  the  clubs.  At  last  Wilfred  rose  dismally. 

"All  this  makes  me  feel  very  ill,"  he  announced.  "Let 
us  join  the  ladies." 


A  DINNER  PARTY  113 

On  their  way  upstairs  Lashbridge  said,  "Mr.  Mey- 
ville,  I'm  coming  to  hear  you  in  this  case.  I've  got  a 
couple  of  stalls — seats  in  the  'City  Lands.'  Will  you 
return  the  compliment?  I'm  giving  a  dance  on  Friday 
of  next  week.  Mrs.  Ainslie's  coming — and  her  hus- 
band, if  his  health  permits.  I  should  like  you  to  see 
more  of  Ainslie.  My  daughter  shall  send  you  a  card. 
You  know  I'm  a  widower." 

"I  assumed  so." 

"Why,  may  I  ask?" 

"There  are  some  people  who  must  be  widowers. 
There  are  certain  men  who,  at  sight,  you  are  sure  must 
have  survived  their  wives." 

"What  are  their  characteristics?" 

"Frankly,  I  can't  say.  I've  often  wondered.  Of 
course,  the  object  of  every  smart  woman  is  to  be  and 
to  look  a  widow.  Most  of  them  succeed.  But  a 
widower  is  born — not  made.  You  are,  if  I  may  say  so, 
one  of  Nature's  widowers." 

Lashbridge  looked  curiously  at  Richard  and  then 
burst  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"By  gad,  so  I  am.  I've  always  wondered  what  I 
was,  and  now  I  know.  I'm  one  of  Nature's  widowers. 
And  you — you're  one  of  Nature's  co-respondents.  And 
I'm  very  glad  that  she — I  mention  no  names — has 
found  it  out.  The  ideal  co-respondent  is  born — and 
not  cited." 

His  loose-limbed  figure  lunged  forward  with  laughter 
as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"A  COLD  WOMAN" 

MRS.  AINSLIE  rose  to  receive  the  men. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say?"  asked  Lashbridge. 

"Nothing,  except  that  I'm  glad  to  see  you  again." 

"Number  three.     I  congratulate  you." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"You  are  the  third  hostess  this  season  who  has  not 
welcomed  us  with  that  terribly  depressing  question, 
'Well,  have  you  settled  the  affairs  of  the  nation?' ' 

Immediately  every  man  looked  guilty — as  though  he 
had  purposely  and  of  malice  aforethought  concealed 
the  only  possible  solution  of  the  Free  Trade  question. 

"But  I  always  ask  that,"  said  Lady  Kytnow,,  slightly 
befogged. 

"You,  dear  Lady  Kytnow,  you  are  privileged.  Such 
an  interrogation  is  expected  from  you.  Your  husband 
is  a  legislator,  who  will  shortly,  I  trust,  be  in  the  Lords. 
Only  the  other  day  Lord  Wiltshire,  during  an  exceed- 
ingly dull  debate,  said  to  me,  'Why  haven't  we  got 
Kytnow  in  the  Lords?  We  must  have  him;  the  atmos- 
phere would  be  congenial.' ' 

"I  must  tell  my  husband  that,  dear  Lord  Lashbridge. 
He  will  be  delighted  to  hear  what  you've  said. .  Andrew, 
my  dear 

She  summoned  her  husband  to  her  side  and  confided 
Lord  Lashbridge's  compliment  to  Sir  Andrew's  watch- 
chain  as  he  stood  panting  above  her. 


"A  COLD  WOMAN"  115 

Meanwhile,  Gwendolen  was  imperceptibly  arranging 
her  guests  in  suitable  groups,  but  she  found  occasion 
to  whisper: 

"Richard,  stay  to  the  end." 

He  nodded. 

To  requests  that  she  should  sing  she  answered: 

"The  amateur  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  We  are  all 
professionals  nowadays — or  nothing.  No  man  who  can 
write  a  decent  letter  ever  does  so.  He  writes  an  'advice 
on  evidence,'  is  it,  Mr.  Meyville?  or  an  article  on  the 
deterioration  of  British  blotting-paper.  And  we  all 
hate  hearing  people  sing,  unless  we've  paid  to  hear 
them  do  it." 

"That  is  perfectly  true,"  said  Sir  James,  who  had 
the  courtesy  to  agree  discourteously  with  her.  "Pro- 
fessionalism has  killed  even  games.  The  ordinary  man 
is  a  fool  if  he  takes  a  hand  at  bridge,  or  tennis,  or 
croquet.  Everything  that  is  done  nowadays  is  done 
for  a  living.  Is  it  so,  or  is  it  not?  Of  course  it  is." 

But  Lashbridge,  who  had  a  genuine  admiration  for 
her  voice,  and  an  incipient  admiration  for  herself,  led 
her  to  the  piano. 

"What  shall  I  sing?" 

"That  dismal  song  about — you,  please." 

"About  me?  Oh,  you  mean  the  Lady  Gwendolen 
song.  I  sincerely  trust  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  me." 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender  and  pure.  The 
words  were  those  of  the  ordinary  drawing-room  ballad, 
but  they  had  been  set  to  charming  music  by  Reggie 
Turner,  the  composer  who  was  an  intimate  friend  of 
hers.  The  song  was  a  great  favourite  of  Gwendolen's, 
and,  somehow — perhaps  in  a  measure  because  of  her 
friendship  for  the  composer — she  had  developed  a  senti- 
mental sympathy  for  the  unfortunate  heroine.  Though 


116  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

it  was  a  man's  song,  she  seemed  to  sing  as  though  it 
were  a  prophetic  poem  about  herself. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ROSES 

Here  in  my  garden  of  roses 

Roses  are  crimson  and  white, 

Roses  that  breathe  in  their  fragrance 

Incense  of  Earth's  delight. 

Fairer  than  all  the  flowers 
Twined  round  the  hearts  of  men, 
Sleeps  in  my  garden  its  mistress, 
My  Lady  Gwendolen. 

Stark  in  my  garden  of  roses 
That  sigh  with  the  summer's  breath, 
Bearing  his  scythe  for  the  harvest, 
Standeth  the  Reaper — Death. 

His  scythe  shall  reap  no  flowers 

Grown  in  the  fields  of  men. 

The  Reaper  has  marked  in  his  reaping 

My  Lady  Gwendolen. 

Grief  in  my  garden  of  roses 
Cometh  to  every  rose, 
They  bury  their  heads  in  sorrow 
Watching  her  blue  eyes  close. 

Their  leaves  they  scatter  as  tear-drops 

To  hide  from  the  gaze  of  man, 

In  a  scented  shroud  of  rose-leaves, 

My  Lady  Gwendolen. 

The  simplicity  of  the  setting  was  a  perfect  medium 
for  the  singer's  voice.    A  few  chords  sounded  light  and 


"A  COLD  WOMAN"  117 

warm.  You  felt  the  fragrant  life  of  the  flowers,  the 
perfume  of  white  roses  in  the  twilight.  The  first  part 
of  the  melody  expressed  the  poetry  of  passion,  the 
proud  contentment  of  love.  Softly  and  tenderly  she 
sang,  as  though  fearful  of  disturbing  the  sleeper  in 
her  paradise  of  flowers.  Then  sad  minor  chords  were 
struck,  and  the  melody  died  away  in  a  perfumed  agony. 

Grief  had  come  to  every  rose,  and  the  singer's  voice 
sank  lower  and  lower,  as  though  subdued  by  relentless 
Death.  With  the  last  chord  fell  the  last  petals  of  the 
roses. 

When  she  had  finished,  Lashbridge  thought  he  saw 
the  glimmer  of  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  darted  a  glance 
in  the  direction  of  Richard.  He,  however,  was  talking 
in  a  low  voice  to  Pamela. 

Mrs.  Ainslie  declined  to  sing  again,  and  rose  from 
the  piano. 

Lady  Kytnow  was,  for  the  moment,  completely  at  the 
mercy  of  Wilfred's  latest  bulletins.  While  Richard 
seemed  absorbed  in  conversation,  Gwendolen  took  Lord 
Lashbridge  to  interview  the  spaniel  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place. 

"He  shall  perform  now,"  she  said.  "Keir,  what  do 
you  do  when  you're  bored?" 

The  dog  (who  was  called  "Keir,"  after  the  eminent 
patriot  and  politician,  either  because  he  was  so  con- 
spicuously dressy  or  because  he  was  worth  his  weight 
in  gold)  instantly  died. 

After  Keir's  resurrection,  Lashbridge  inquired : 

"What  do  you  do  for  a  knighthood?" 

Keir  sat  up  and  begged. 

Everybody  roared  with  laughter  at  the  extremely 
intelligent  and  over-dressed  appearance  of  the  dog. 
Lashbridge  protested: 


118  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"I  hate  seeing  a  dog  perform.  It  degrades  him  to 
the  level  of  an  actor." 

At  her  father's  words  an  indignant  flush  spread  over 
Pamela's  face,  a  flush  so  admirably  becoming  that 
Richard  stared  inquisitively  at  her,  a  fact  noted  by 
Gwendolen. 

It  seemed  that  her  face  became  pallid  against  the 
dead  black  of  her  hair.  As  if  by  instinct  the  guests 
appeared  to  realise  that  this  was  the  moment  to  leave. 
A  rustle  as  of  cold  wind  went  through  the  room. 

Sir  James  Tufnell,  on  the  point  of  departure,  said 
to  Richard: 

"I  congratulate  you  on  the  way  you  won  the  running- 
down  case  to-day." 

"Pardon  me,  Sir  James,"  he  answered  with  somewhat 
tactless  tact  in  allusion  to  the  judge's  summing-up. 
"It  was  you  who  won  the  case." 

"Eh?  It  was  a  peculiar  coincidence  that  as  I  was 
driving  down  to  the  Courts  this  morning  my  carriage 
was  nearly  run  into  by  one  of  the  vehicles  of  that 
infernal  Amalgamated  Omnibus  Co." 

"It  was  a  very  fortunate  coincidence." 

Tufnell  grunted. 

"By  the  way,  you  know  O'Brien  is  going  to  try  the 
Yoghi  case  next  week.  I  spoke  to  him  about  you.  He'll 
give  you  every  chance.  He  doesn't  like  the  Solicitor- 
General.  You  know  he's  not  too  fond  of  Irishmen." 

"But  he's  Irish  himself!" 

"That's  the  reason.  Do  Irishmen  ever  love  one 
another?  I  doubt  it.  Good-night  to  you." 

Everything  was  going  wonderfully  well  for  Richard. 

After  the  guests  had  left,  he  found  Gwendolen  in 
the  dining-room  drinking  lemonade.  In  a  dry  tone 
that  she  had  never  used  to  him  before,  she  said: 


"A  COLD  WOMAN"  119 

"Don't  go.    I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

At  that  moment  Wilfred  came  in,  jubilant: 

"I've  never  enjoyed  myself  so  much  in  my  life. 
Charming  woman,  Lady  Vera  Hufflfn!  And  Mrs. 
Craven-Hill  is  as  sympathetic  as  she  is  sensible.  I 
interested  them  very  much." 

Clearly,  Wilfred  was  full  of  conversation.  Having 
conversed  for  three  hours  about  his  internal  economy 
—which  really  amounted  to  extravagance — he  pro- 
posed to  "make  a  night  of  it."  He  felt  in  training  for 
doing  justice  to  his  sole  topic. 

"You  can  go  to  bed,  dear.  I  want  to  have  a  talk 
with  Richard." 

She  saw  the  necessity  of  yielding,  said  good-night, 
and  went  out  of  the  room. 

Instantly  Wilfred  plunged  into  his  favourite  subject: 

"I'm  terribly  ill.  I'm  the  last  person  to  alarm  peo- 
ple, as  you  know.  But,  Richard,  it  is  well  that  you 
should  be  aware  of  my  position.  For  years  I  have 
devoted  myself  to  studying  my  case.  And  now  I  am 
completely  at  fault." 

With  intense  eagerness  he  leaned  forward  as  he 
said: 

"To-night  I  ate  a  couple  of  slices  of  ham  cooked  in 
champagne.  I  don't  why  I  did  it — I  suppose  I  was 
interested  in  Mrs.  Craven-Hill's  conversation  about  the 
properties  of  Lithia  water.  In  the  ordinary  course  of 
things  I  should  be  in  excruciating  agony.  But  I  feel 
no  pain." 

"Surely  you  don't  complain  of  that?  You  are  very 
hard  to  please,  Wilfred." 

"I  don't  complain.  Heaven  knows,  I  never  complain. 
But  I'm  alarmed!  Alarmed!" 

"But  why?     What's  the  good  of  worrying  because 


120  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

you  feel  well?  You  may  get  accustomed  to  it.  And,  in 
time,  you  may  even  grow  to  like  it." 

"But  I've  no  business  to  feel  well !  Don't  you  see 
if  my  liver  was  all  right,  I  couldn't  possibly  feel  well. 
My  organs  have  ceased  to  work.  I  am  at  a  standstill. 
This  is  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Before  long  the 
action  of  the  heart  will  cease." 

The  young  man  looked  curiously  at  him.  Wilfred 
clearly  would  never  be  convinced  that  he  was  suffering 
from  nothing  but  the  "Medicine  Habit,"  a  vice  as 
dangerous  as  alcoholism,  cocainism,  or  the  practice  of 
taking  morphia.  A  man  who  is  his  own  doctor  has  a 
corpse  for  his  patient. 

Evidently  on  the  subject  of  his  imaginary  ailments 
Wilfred  was  as  mad  as  a  Mullah. 

Deliberately  he  said: 

"I  shall  not  last  much  longer.  All  my  affairs  are  in 
order.  Everything  goes  to  Gwendolen.  She'll  be  a  rich 
woman,  but  she  deserves  it,  in  a  way.  Now  this  is  what 
I  want  to  speak  to  you  about.  I  don't  want  you  to 
marry  Gwendolen." 

Richard  rose  in  astonishment. 

"Let's  talk  about  that  in  ten  years'  time.  I've  no 
idea—" 

"Of  course  you  haven't.  But  she's  very  fond  of 
you.  She  likes  you  better  than  anybody  else.  But  I 
warn  you  against  her." 

"Indeed!    Why?"  asked  the  other  in  surprise. 

Mysteriously,  with  outstretched  hands  vibrating 
from  excitement,  Wilfred  explained : 

"My  wife's  a  most  awfully  cold  woman.  She's  an 
iceberg.  She  doesn't  know  what  love  is." 

Richard  suppressed  a  smile  at  the  husband's  strange 
hallucination. 


"A  COLD  WOMAN"  121 

"I  see  you're  surprised.  Naturally  you  don't  know. 
Nobody  would  guess.  She's  a  splendid  creature,  bril- 
liant, beautiful !  No  one  admires  my  wife  more  than  I. 
But,  mark  you,  not  as  a  wife." 

In  that  capacity  he  dismissed  Gwendolen  with  a  snap 
of  the  fingers. 

"No  one  knows  more  about  women  than  I  do.    They 
are  the  only  things  in  which  I  take  an  interest.     I've 
studied  them  all,  every  sort,  everywhere — France,  Ja- 
pan, Italy,  San  Francisco,  Port  Said."     Then,  quite 
calmly,  but  with  a  pathetic  shake  of  the  head,  he  stated, 
"I  should  have  married  an  Andulasian  woman." 
"Do  you  know  many  Andulasian  women?" 
"All  of  them!" 

"Surely  not  all  Andulasian  women?  There  must  be 
several  hundreds,  surely?" 

"No,  no,  I  don't  know  each  individual,  but  I  know 

all  the  types.     Of  course,  a  man  of  my  temperament 

could  never  be  entirely  happy,  from  a  matrimonial  point 

of  view,  in  this  country.    I  should  have  been  a  Pasha." 

"Really?" 

"Certainly.  I  have  often  thought  of  settling  five 
thousand  a  year  on  Gwendolen,  and  going  to  live  in 
Constantinople." 

The  weedy  little  man,  excited  by  the  idea,  walked 
jerkily  about  the  room. 

"It's  too  late  now,  of  course.  But  that  would  have 
saved  me.  Now,  look  at  my  constitution.  What  is  it? 
Nothing.  I  can't  blame  Gwendolen,  in  a  way.  But  I 
don't  want  a  man  like  you,  whom  I  am  fond  of,  to  have 
his  life  ruined  as  mine  has  been." 

If  Richard  had  believed  a  word  of  this  improbable 
harangue  he  would  have  seen  pathos  in  his  shivering 
host  anxiously,  unselfishly  warning  him  against  happi- 


122  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

ness.  But  he  had  his  reasons  for  placing  no  faith  in 
any  single  one  of  the  statements. 

His  object  was  to  get  out  of  the  house — without 
laughing.  Apparently,  Wilfred,  by  some  system  of 
auto-suggestion,  had  evolved  a  sentimental  side  to  his 
disorders.  With  women  he  knew  that  such  a  state  of 
things  was  common ;  he  was  aware  that  many  matrons 
of  Bayswater  regarded  illness  itself  as  a  form  of  ro- 
mance, that  in  their  minds  conversation  on  the  subject 
occupied  the  place  held  by  amours  in  the  minds  of  the 
more  skittish  and  less  matronly  mothers  of  Mayfair. 

Mr.  Ainslie's  obsession  was  so  comical  that  it  could 
not  be  serious. 

Richard  prepared  to  leave. 

"I  say,  Wilfred,  I'm  truly  sorry  to  hear  all  this,"  he 
said,  with  a  successful  assumption  of  gravity.  "You've 
given  me  a  piece  of  advice.  May  I  give  you  one?  Put 
yourself  on  a  strict  diet  of  no  drugs  for  a  week  and  see 
how  you  get  on." 

"Fatal!  Fatal!"  cried  the  other,  throwing  up  his 
hands. 

"Try  it !  At  present  your  body  is  a  sort  of  battle- 
field for  various  divisions  of  the  pharmacopoeia.  Have 
a  week  off,  and  let  things  settle  down  a  bit." 

"It  would  be  a  complete  change  of  treatment.  I 
don't  think  I  could  risk  that.  Not  at  present,  at  least. 
I'll  think  it  over.  It's  a  new  idea." 

Eventually  Richard  left,  having  extracted  a  promise 
that  the  new  treatment  should  be  seriously  considered. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  DEFENCE  OF  THE  YOGHI  AND  PRISCILLA 

MrcH  against  her  will,  Gwendolen  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  was  vaguely  jealous.  She  did  not,  of 
course,  believe  for  a  moment  that  Richard  might  fall 
in  love  with  Pamela.  She  had  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  he  felt  any  particular  interest  in  the  girl.  But 
she  was  for  the  first  time  definitely  conscious  of  the  pos- 
sibility that  he  might  eventually  grow  tired  of  her. 
Hitherto  their  happiness  had  been  complete,  for  each 
was  convinced  of  the  other's  loyalty.  She  could  not 
remember  a  single  occasion  on  which  he  had  told  her 
anything  that  was  not  actually  true.  He  had  never, 
to  her  knowledge,  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  any 
other  woman.  On  all  subjects  that  had  interest  for  him 
he  had  taken  her  into  his  confidence.  Even  the  slight- 
est, as  well  as  the  gravest,  anxieties  of  his  life  had,  she 
firmly  believed,  always  been  laid  before  her.  It  is  the 
privilege  of  love,  and,  indeed,  one  of  the  causes  of  its 
great  popularity  as  an  institution,  that  lovers  need 
speak  about  nothing  but  themselves.  Still,  the  lover 
prefers  to  dilate  on  such  matters  as  reveal  him  in  a 
favourable  and,  if  possible,  a  triumphant  light.  And 
Gwendolen  remembered  with  satisfaction  many  little 
details,  both  with  regard  to  himself  and  his  home-life, 
which  were  mean  and  petty,  and  would  only  have  been 
related  to  a  woman  from  whom  nothing  was  concealed 
and  whose  sympathy  was  certain. 


124  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Jealousy  was  a  new  experience  for  her.  She  re- 
garded it  as  unnecessary  and,  indeed,  dishonourable  to 
her  love.  The  idle  excuse  that  a  woman  makes  for  being 
jealous — that  "It  shows  how  much  I  love  you" — had 
never  occurred  to  her.  A  contract  to  love  is  like  any 
other  contract.  It  is  terminable  after  due  notice  or 
by  adequate  compensation.  But  to  receive  cash  from 
A,  and  to  pretend  to  him  that  you  are  supplying  to 
him  the  goods  which  you  are  actually  supplying  to  B, 
is  roguery. 

This  was  an  illustration  of  Richard's,  who  regarded 
love  from  a  common-sense  point  of  view.  (He  firmly 
believed  that  passion  could  be  satisfactorily  regarded 
in  such  a  way.) 

"My  dear  Gwendolen,"  he  had  said — he  had  said 
it  in  a  punt  during  a  very  charming  day  on  the  river 
— "if  ever  you  get  jealous  of  me,  I  shall  regard  it  as 
a  symptom  of  your  decrepitude,  or  as  an  insult  to  me — 
whichever  you  like.  Either  your  power  of  judgment 
will  be  failing,  or  you  will  be  accusing  me  of  dishonesty. 
You  do  not  show  your  confidence  in  your  trustee  if 
you  suggest  that  he  is  embezzling  your  trust  funds." 

She  knew  that  he  was  absolutely  honest.  But  how 
could  he — more  than  another — permanently  control  his 
heart? 

On  the  day  after  the  dinner-party  she  reflected  on 
the  jealousy  question,  and  decided  to  dismiss  it  as  fu- 
tile. But  just  as  a  man  who  considers  the  possibility 
of  being  in  love  ends  by  loving,  so  a  woman  who  pon- 
ders on  whether  or  no  she  has  cause  for  jealousy  is 
bound  to  become  jealous. 

Two  days  passed.  She  had  no  word  from  him.  Sev- 
eral times  she  failed  to  reach  him  by  the  telephone. 
Common-sense  told  her  that  it  would  be  ridiculous  to 


DEFENCE  OF  YOGHI  AND  PRISCILLA     125 

write  and  tell  him  that  she  was  jealous.  But  if  she  put 
pen  to  paper,  she  felt  that  she  must  deal  with  the  sub- 
ject. She  wired,  asking  him  to  call  at  certain  definite 
times.  He  answered  that  he  was  engaged. 

On  the  following  Monday  (in  a  new  dress)  she  drove 
down  to  the  Temple. 

Pioneered  by  her  groom,  she  mounted  several  flights 
of  stairs,  and  was  privileged  to  converse  with  Jubb. 
She  did  not  care  for  Jubb.  He  was  horribly  untidy 
and  perfumed  with  attar  of  alcohol.  Also,  he  said 
that  Richard  was  not  in. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"At  the  Old  Bailey." 

"When  will  he  be  back?" 

"I  couldn't  say." 

"Where  are  his  chambers?" 

"Here,  madam." 

Jubb  showed  her,  petulantly  jingling  the  ruby- 
studded  vanity-case  that  hung  from  her  wrist,  into 
Richard's  miserable  little  room.  Bewildered,  she  stared 
at  the  clerk : 

"I  asked  for  his  chambers — where  he  works.  This, 
I  presume,  is  the  box-room.  But  there  aren't  even 
boxes  in  it." 

Jubb  became  irritable.  Incompetent  though  he  was, 
he  had  a  full  share  of  the  barrister's  clerk's  loyalty 
to  his  master. 

"This  is  where  he  does  -his  work!  There  are  the 
briefs." 

The  semi-romantic  interest  that  exists  in  the  fem- 
inine brain  in  connection  with  the  term  "brief"  was  dis- 
pelled in  Gwendolen's  mind  when  she  looked  at  the  long 
white  sheets  of  doubled  paper  tied  with  red  tape.  The 
interest  a  loving  woman  feels  in  the  surroundings  of 


126  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

that  part  of  her  lover's  life  in  which  she  has  no  share 
received  a  severe  shock. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Mr.  Meyville  works  here?" 

"Certainly  he  does.    Why  shouldn't  he?" 

"How  can  he?     The  place  is  filthy." 

She  put  her  white-gloved  hand  on  the  wainscoting, 
and  when  she  drew  it  away  the  fingers  were  black. 

Disgusted,  she  drew  off  the  glove  and  threw  it  into 
the  waste-paper  basket. 

"Surely  there  is  some  mistake,"  she  said  at  last.  "I 
thought  Mr.  Meyville  had  chambers.  This  is — well, 
I  don't  know  what  it  is.  But  it  is  unlike  anything  I 
have  ever  seen." 

Her  surprise  was  so  evident,  her  beauty  was  so  strik- 
ing, that  Jubb  pardoned  her  ignorance. 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand,  milady — 

"I  am  not  'my  lady.'    I  am  Mrs.  Ainslie." 

"Oh,  it's  you  that  telephones!"  he  said,  beginning 
to  understand  the  reason  of  the  visit  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful creature  with  whom  he  had  ever  conducted  a  con- 
versation face  to  face.  "We've  often  had  words,  you 
and  me.  You're  '2835  Mayfair'!  I  thought  I  knew 
your  voice." 

Gwendolen  smiled  graciously. 

"I  am  the  Mayfair  you  mention." 

"You  see,  mum,  with  barristers,  even  if  they'd  only 
got  a  third  share  in  a  room  like  this,  they  call  it  their 
chambers." 

"Then  a  room  of  this  size  may  really  be  three  dis- 
tinct sets  of  chambers?" 

"Certainly ;  and  often  is." 

"Are  you  sure  you  know?  You're  the  caretaker, 
I  presume?" 

The    clerk   was    too    indignant    at    the    ignominious 


DEFENCE  OF  YOGHI  AND  PRISCILLA     127 

suggestion  to  make  a  suitable  reply.  He  stood  speech- 
less. 

The  conversation  terminated  abruptly.  Gwendolen, 
escorted  by  the  groom,  descended  the  perilous  stairs. 

Peering  through  the  still  open  door,  Jubb  muttered 
furiously : 

"A  trollop — nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  trollop. 
Me  a  caretaker!  Oh,  my  Gawd!" 

Gwendolen  was  touched  to  the  heart  by  the  poverty 
of  Richard's  room.  To  her  temperament,  beautiful 
and  luxurious  surroundings  were  necessaries  of  life. 
As  Miss  Paxton-Pryce,  she  had  found  her  father's  hid- 
eous house  in  Queen's  Gate  intolerable,  and  had  mar- 
ried Wilfred  chiefly  because  his  wealth  would  enable 
her  to  live  in  the  atmosphere  which  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  her  contentment.  Just  as  some  women 
are  properly  fated  to  spinsterhood,  so  Gwendolen  had 
been  constructed  by  nature  to  be  a  rich  man's  wife.  It 
was,  therefore,  with  a  shock  that  she  discovered  the 
squalid  conditions  of  Richard's  life.  No  wonder  he 
was  struggling  with  all  his  strength  to  reach  success ! 
And  she  regarded  the  fact  that  he  had  never  hinted 
how  depressing  were  the  surroundings  of  failure  as  a 
mark  of  delicate  consideration  on  his  part.  The  most 
simple  services  are  often  the  most  highly  rewarded.  A 
very  slight  act  of  consideration  frequently  appeals  with 
extraordinary  force  to  a  woman.  Gwendolen  felt  un- 
usually in  love  with  Richard  and  proportionately  jeal- 
ous of  Pamela.  Although  she  was  proud  of  his  love, 
she  considered  it  preposterous  that  he  should  dream  of 
aspiring  to  the  hand  of  Pamela,  whom,  with  very  nat- 
ural contradiction,  she  thought  entirely  unworthy  of 
him. 

On  the  next  day  again  there  was  no  news.     From 


128  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Jubb,  whose  enmity  she  did  not  for  a  moment  suspect, 
only  evasive  telephonic  replies  could  be  obtained. 
Richard  was  in  London!  Why  could  she  never  see 
him? 

On  Wednesday  the  papers  were  full  of  him  and  his 
conduct  of  the  Yoghi  case.  On  Thursday  he  was  al- 
most a  celebrity. 

Her  lover  had  become  a  mere  topic  of  conversation, 
like  Free  Trade  or  the  Nonconformist  Conscience.  But 
she  hadn't  seen  him  for  nearly  a  week.  He  was  public 
property. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Richard  had  never  felt  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  her  jealousy.  He  had  been  very 
busy  with  his  big  case  and  in  arranging  to  move  into 
his  new  chambers.  In  moments  of  successful  effort  love 
slips  unnoticed  out  of  a  man's  life. 

On  the  evening  of  Gwendolen's  visit  to  the  Temple, 
he  had  arranged  with  Kendal  to  give  up  his  "chambers" 
— much  to  the  annoyance  of  Jubb,  who,  having  re- 
garded Richard  as  a  good  investment,  promptly  cir- 
culated the  report  that  he  was  being  financed  by  a  lady 
in  easy  circumstances  and  of  palpably  easier  virtue. 

With  regard  to  the  Yoghi  case,  everything  was  go- 
ing well.  The  two  peculiar  defendants  had  behaved 
in  court  with  an  eccentricity  that  had  never  previously 
been  exhibited  in  the  Old  Bailey. 

The  Yoghi  appeared  in  the  ordinary  evening-dress 
of  a  conjuror,  while  Priscilla,  an  extremely  stout  lady, 
wore  a  purple  toga  and  a  complete  yellow  wig,  like  a 
beehive;  she  also  carried  a  "property"  olive  branch 
in  her  hand,  and  devoted  much  time  to  silent  prayer. 
On  occasions,  in  spite  of  her  counsel's  remonstrances, 
she  insisted  on  talking  to  the  judge  in  the  manner  of 
a  Christian  Scientist. 


DEFENCE  OF  YOGHI  AND  PRISCILLA     129 

The  Yoghi  himself  said  neat  things  about  judges  in 
general,  the  next  world,  and  "matter."  Matter,  he 
maintained,  was  not  matter,  and,  apparently,  truth 
consisted  solely  of  unintelligible  jargon.  His  lan- 
guage was  of  such  cryptic  complication  as  is  only  em- 
ployed by  the  followers  of  Mrs.  Mary  Baker  G.  Eddy. 

When  called  upon  to  plead,  he  had  stated: 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  guilt.  For  guilt  implies 
sin.  A  tree  can  last  for  hundreds  of  years.  And  I, 
being  a  man  of  higher  order  of  creation  than  a  tree, 
can,  without  sin,  live  for  ever." 

"The  anticipation  of  unusual  longevity,"  said  Sir 
Stephen  O'Brien,  the  judge,  "is  no  answer  to  a  criminal 
charge."  (For  two  obiter  dicta  this  intelligent  per- 
son will  ever  be  famous :  "I  hate  Presbyterians  as  much 
as  anybody;  still,  they  are  entitled  to  justice";  and 
"All  barristers  are  subsidised  liars.") 

He  then  instructed  the  Clerk  of  Arraigns  to  enter 
a  plea  of  "Not  Guilty." 

But  the  prisoners  protested  against  that  course.  It 
was  almost  impossible  to  satisfy  the  Yoghi  and  Pris- 
cilla. 

The  judge  rebuked  them. 

"Your  defence  is  now  in  the  hands  of  a  very  able 
counsel,  and  you  must  keep  silence  while  he  conducts 
it  and  calls  your  witnesses,  if  you  have  any." 

"The  Lord  is  our  witness,"  answered  the  Yoghi. 

"Your  counsel  will  exercise  his  discretion  as  to  whom 
he  places  in  the  witness-box." 

Then  the  trial  began.  In  spite  of  the  revolting  na- 
ture of  the  evidence  and  the  seriousness  of  the  charge, 
the  extraordinary  demeanour  of  the  prisoners,  their 
violent  outbursts,  and  their  sudden  adjournments  for 
prayer  caused  considerable  merriment.  Apart  from 


130  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

its  intrinsic  indecency,  the  case  attracted  additional 
attention  because,  at  the  moment,  there  was  nothing 
of  general  interest  in  the  newspapers.  The  country  was 
not  in  danger  of  war  with  anybody;  all  Mullahs  were 
inexplicably  sane;  diabolo  and  Christian  Science  had 
gone  out  of  fashion;  and  nothing  had  as  yet  taken 
their  place  as  a  topic  of  drawing-room  conversation. 

So  the  maxims  of  the  Yoghi  and  Priscilla,  and  the 
strenuous  cross-examination  of  Mr.  Meyville,  com- 
pletely engrossed  the  public  mind.  Crowds  besieged 
the  Old  Bailey ;  the  court  was  thronged  with  celebrities, 
whose  presence  was  daily  chronicled  in  the  Press  as  if 
the  occasion  were  the  premiere  of  a  new  play.  One  of 
the  evening  papers  even  issued  a  special  Yoghi  edition, 
full  of  bad  likenesses  of  the  prisoners,  witnesses,  and 
counsel,  with  as  much  of  the  evidence  as  was  printable. 
The  public  took  the  view  that  the  defendants  were  mad, 
but  that  their  form  of  insanity  should  be  treated  with 
penal  servitude  for  life. 

At  length,  on  Friday  afternoon,  the  case  for  the 
Crown,  after  occupying  four  days,  was  concluded. 
Richard  rose  in  a  complete  hush  of  intense  interest  as 
to  his  line  of  defence. 

"My  lord,"  said  he  in  substance,  "I  find  myself  sud- 
denly in  a  position  to  prove  that  the  defendants  are 
husband  and  wife.  They  cannot,  therefore,  be  indicted 
for  conspiracy.  I  can  give  you  the  authorities,  my 
lord.  But  your  lordship  is  well  aware  of  them.  There 
is  no  other  indictment  on  the  record." 

The  judge  was  completely  taken  by  surprise.  The 
counsel  for  the  Crown  could  not  assist  him. 

In  an  astounded. and  indignant  court,  Richard  proved 
the  fact  that  the  Yoghi  and  Priscilla  had  been  united 
in  holy  matrimony. 


DEFENCE  OF  YOGHI  AND  PRISCILLA     131 

Nothing  could  be  done.  Amazement  reigned.  The 
judge,  rightly  or  wrongly,  directed  a  protesting  jury 
to  return  a  verdict  of  "Not  Guilty." 

And  Richard  left  the  Old  Bailey  a  celebrated  man, 
but  soundly  hissed  by  an  outraged  public. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CARLTON  HOUSE  TEREACE 

ON  that  evening  Lord  Lashbridge's  house  in  Carlton 
House  Terrace  was  crowded.  He  stood,  with  Pamela, 
at  the  head  of  the  double  staircase  receiving  his  guests, 
not  free  from  pleasure  in  the  indescribable  atmosphere 
of  excitement  which  proves  that  one's  entertaining  is 
successful.  A  constant  stream  of  gleaming  shoulders 
and  glittering  jewels  and  fluttering  dresses  passed  him. 
In  most  minds  there  was  a  topic  of  absorbing  interest, 
a  subject  on  which  ideas  could  be  exchanged. 

It  adds  considerably  to  the  animation  of  a  dance  if 
in  the  course  of  the  day  an  event,  be  it  even  a  disaster, 
has  occurred.  Dowagers  conversed  eagerly  with  each 
other.  Non-dancing  men,  grouped  about  doors,  whis- 
pered items  of  information,  for  the  most  part  entirely 
inexact,  with  regard  to  the  unpublished  evidence  in 
the  case  of  the  day.  Only  the  marriageable  maidens 
and  unmarryable  spinsters  refrained  from  giving  voice 
to  reflections  on  the  trial.  With  cordial  courtesy,  Lash- 
bridge  bent  over  Gwendolen's  hand. 

"I  congratulate  you  most  heartily,"  he  said,  as 
though  she  herself  had  conducted  the  defence.  "But 
you  mustn't  keep  Mr.  Meyville  to  yourself  to-night. 
I  must  introduce  him  to  everybody — who  may  be  use- 
ful. AH  sorts  of  terrible  people  are  useful  to  barris- 
ters. You  see  I  take  a  great  interest  in  him — for  your 
sake." 


CARLTON  HOUSE  TERRACE       133 

"But  is  he  coming  here  to-night?"  she  asked  in  as- 
tonishment, as  a  gleam  of  delight  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Certainly.  Didn't  you  know?  At  least,  he  ac- 
cepted. Of  course,  I  didn't  put  on  the  cards  'Dancing 
and  Mr.  Richard  Meyville.'  I  only  asked  him  the  other 
night  at  your  house." 

The  happiness  so  palpably  shining  in  her  face  pre- 
cluded the  supposition  that  her  ignorance  of  his  move- 
ments was  caused  by  an  estrangement. 

Failing  that,  she  certainly  had  her  host's  sympathy. 
She  expressed  her  desire  to  see  Richard.  So  Lash- 
bridge  kept  her  by  his  side  in  order  that  she  might 
meet  him  immediately  on  his  arrival.  Wilfred  passed 
on  to  report  his  condition  to  friends  and  acquaintances. 
In  the  intervals  of  receiving  his  guests,  Lashbridge 
talked  gaily  to  Gwendolen. 

"Your  husband,"  he  said  smiling,  "is  getting  more 
and  more  medical.  I  really  think  Mr.  Meyville  faces  his 
prescriptions  nobly.  But  will  it  last?  You  know  that 
Lord  Snelbody  was  compelled  to  break  it  off  with  Lady 
Snelbody  because  Freegrove  could  talk  nothing  but 
golf."  ' 

"I  think  that  a  husband  should  have  a  hobby — some- 
thing to  occupy  his  mind." 

"Perhaps.  Hobbies  for  Husbands,  brought  out  in 
a  convenient  and  not  too  costly  form,  would  be  a  use- 
ful hand-book.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  being  a  hus- 
band at  all  ought  to  be  a  most  engrossing  hobby;  I 
mean — being  a  husband  to  a  charming  woman."  And 
he  bowed. 

"I've  always  heard,  Lord  Lashbridge,  that  you  were 
a  great  success  as  a  husband." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  I  may  say  so.  I  was  much  com- 
plimented. But  I  gave  my  mind  to  it.  Still,  in  our 


134  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

day  the  art  of  being  a  husband  seems  completely  lost. 
We  have  no  husbands,  no  painters,  no  architects  now- 
adays. But  I  hear  that  our  co-respondents  are  quite 
admirable.  It  should  be  the  object  of  all  thinking 
women  to  marry  co-respondents." 

"But,  unfortunately,  you  cannot  get  a  character 
with  a  co-respondent  as  you  can  with  a  cook." 

"Ah,  Monkey  Brand,  my  dear  fellow,  how  are  you? 
Let  me  introduce  the  Marchese  di  Fedine.  You  will 
find  the  Marquis  a  most  dangerous  acquaintance." 

The  Ambassador,  a  tiny  man,  wonderfully  bald,  ap- 
parently with  three  huge  black  eyebrows — so  thick 
that  they  seemed  to  be  made  of  chenille — the  third  on 
his  upper  lip,  was  the  most  completely  dressed  man 
in  the  world.  His  gold  eyeglass,  worn  in  his  right  eye, 
was  balanced  by  the  huge  "Galloway"  Malmaison  in  the 
lapel  of  his  coat.  Buttonholes  were  not  worn  at  the 
time.  But  the  Marquis  wore  everything.  So  conspicu- 
ously ornate  was  he  that  "Sem"  had  caricatured  him 
with  two  buttonholes  and  a  couple  of  single  eye-glasses. 
He  was  a  brilliantly  clever  man,  and  immensely  popu- 
lar in  the  best  Society — both  Royal  and  Hebrew — 
which  is  very  much  the  same  thing. 

Volubly  he  began: 

"Delightful.  I  adore  this  house.  It  is  a  palace  that 
is  also  a  home.  There  is  an  atmosphere  that  one  finds 
nowhere  else.  One  sees  a  difference.  What  is  it?  I 
don't  know." 

Gwendolen  smiled. 

"Look  round,"  she  said,  "don't  you  notice  anything 
strange  ?" 

"No,  assuredly.  But  I  detect  the  absence  of  some- 
thing. But  what?  I  am  puzzled." 

"Do  you  see  any  eagle  noses?" 


CARLTON  HOUSE  TERRACE       135 

Lashbridge,  who  had  overheard  this  conversation, 
laughed. 

"There  isn't  a  Jew  in  the  place.  I  don't  like  them. 
They  are  not  the  right  shape.  They  are  not  neces- 
sary." 

"You  amaze  me,"  said  the  Marquis  diplomatically. 
Nothing  is  more  pleasant  than  to  feel  that  one  has 
amazed  a  Diplomat,  for  Ambassadors  affect  universal 
knowledge. 

"Lord  Lashbridge,"  Gwendolen  explained,  "is  the 
last  of  the  Anti-Semites." 

"I  would  willingly  become  the  President  of  a  Soci- 
ety for  the  Revival  of  Jew-Baiting  in  this  country," 
said  Lashbridge.  "Things  are  going  too  far.  It  is 
even  maintained  that  the  lions  on  the  Royal  Standard 
are  the  lions  of  Judah,  and  that  our  next  ironclad  is 
to  be  called  H.M.S.  'Moses.'  Still,  I'm  afraid 
I'm  before  my  time.  It  will  only  be  when  the  Jews 
buy  up  the  land  that  the  English  will  wake  to  their 
peril." 

"Eh?"  answered  the  Marquis,  "but  you  have  made 
one  exception  to  your  rule.  Isn't  that  Theo  Roths- 
child over  there?" 

"But  he  is  not  a  Jew,"  said  Gwendolen. 
"Surely  an  ancestor  of  his  founded  the  fortune  of  his 
house  by  doing  a  deal  in  crucifixion  seats !"  exclaimed 
the   Marquis.      "Whenever  a   popular  execution   took 
place  in  Judea  he  bought  up  the  best  seats." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  Gwendolen  explained.  "That 
is  a  mere  myth.  His  real  name  is  Robinson.  But  he 
changed  it  in  order  to  have  some  chance  of  making 
money  on  the  Stock  Exchange." 

Di  Fedine,  somewhat  mystified  and  aggrieved,  said 
to  Lashbridge: 


136  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"For  an  Englishman,  it  seems  to  me  that  your  dis- 
like of  the  Jews  is  absolutely  unpatriotic." 

Then  he  led  Gwendolen  to  the  ball-room.  A  cele- 
brated expert  in  women,  he  showed  plainly  that  he  ad- 
mired her.  He  was  one  of  those  foreigners  with  whom 
the  cult  of  women  is  a  substitute  for  athletics.  His 
admiration  pleased  Gwendolen,  for  it  convinced  her  that 
she  should  assuredly  find  favour  in  her  lover's  sight. 

Voluble  and  witty,  Di  Fedine  talked  choses  et  autres, 
and  under  the  spell  of  his  animated  conversation  his 
ugliness  seemed  to  vanish  and  become  merely  an  at- 
tractive mannerism.  She  began  to  understand  his  won- 
derful success  with  women.  But  he  noticed,  consid- 
erably to  his  annoyance,  that  her  eyes  were  furtively 
directed  to  the  door,  and  he  interpreted  these  glances : 

"Can  it  be  possible  that  he  keeps  you  waiting?  It 
is  unforgivable.  No,  there  he  is !" 

At  that  moment  she  caught  sight  of  Richard  in  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  men. 

"What  makes  you  think — ?" 

"Am  I  right?  I  hope  so.  In  this  event  I  congratu- 
late you  both.  I  was  in  the  Court  to-day,  and  I  won- 
dered what  sort  of  woman  he  loved.  As  he  came  in,  he 
saw  us.  He  did  not  look  as  though  he  liked  me  enough 
to  leave  me  money  in  his  will.  It  is  therefore  clear  that 
he  loves  you.  Voila  tout!.  Simple,  is  it  not?  But  I 
am  keeping  him  away.  He  is  saying  to  himself,  'Tiens, 
who  is  the  ugly  devil  talking  to  the  beautiful  Mrs. 
Ainslie?'  There  is  a  proverb  all  about  me  in  this  coun- 
try. Your  young  men  say  'Beauty  and  the  Beast!' 
always.  But  I  make  comical  pleasantry  and  reply, 
'No,  mon  cher,  I'm  not  so  good-looking  as  all  that,  and 
I  must  beg  of  you  not  to  make  insult  of  the  lady  in 
my  presence,'  Co,  ce  n'est  pas  banal?" 


CARLTON  HOUSE  TERRACE       137 

Gwendolen  complimented  him  on  the  comicality  of 
the  pleasantry  he  had  made,  and  saw,  much  to  her  an- 
noyance, that  more  men  were  clustering  around  Rich- 
ard. Amongst  them  Lord  Essie  Marriott,  a  young 
man  who  waggled  as  he  walked,  was  obviously  telling 
the  barrister  all  about  the  case. 

"Essie  is  a  Middlesex  man,  is  he  not?"  asked  the 
Marquis. 

"I  have  no  conception  where  he  was  born,"  she  an- 
swered, fanning  herself  languidly ;  and  he  did  not  pur- 
sue the  matter.  With  great  pleasure,  Gwendolen  no- 
ticed that  people  were  pointing  her  lover  out  to  one 
another.  But  she  realised  that  his  celebrity  was  keep- 
ing him  away  from  her.  This,  she  felt,  with  an  almost 
pleasant  pang,  was  symbolically  ominous. 

The  Marquis  continued  to  prattle.  She  hardly  heard 
him.  Would  Richard  never  come?  At  last  he  crossed 
the  room,  and  she  introduced  him  to  Di  Fedine,  who, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  privileged  to  share  a  secret, 
no  matter  how  public,  immediately  withdrew,  after 
cordial  congratulations.  With  a  sigh  of  complete  hap- 
piness Richard  sat  down  by  her.  His  eyes  shone 
brightly,  and  a  smile  was  on  his  lips.  The  miracle  of 
success  was  upon  him. 

"I  have  just  seen  Wilfred.  He  is  leaving,  and  he 
asked  me  to  take  you  home.  May  I?" 

"Of  course.  Excuse  my  pressing  your  hand — but 
I'm  so,  so  glad  to  see  you  again.  It's  over  a  week. 
You've  become  famous.  And  you've  forgotten  your — 
Queen  of  Kittens." 

"Never,  my  God,  never!"  he  answered,  fervently 
pressing  her  hand.  Then  he  smiled.  "It  was  awfully 
kind  of  you  to  put  your  glove  in  my  waste-paper  basket. 
That  was  the  sweetest  thing  you  have  ever  done." 


138  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

The  fact  that  he  still  took  delight  in  the  merest  tri- 
vialities of  affection  proved  to  her  that  he  was  com- 
pletely in  love. 

"And  I  have  been  jealous,"  she  said,  as  though  mak- 
ing a  confession. 

"My  darling,  you're  as  perfect  as  it's  possible  for  a 
frail  woman  to  be,"  he  answered  smiling.  "I  forgive 
you  all  your  faults.  If  you  like  being  jealous,  I  sha'n't 
stand  in  your  way.  But  I  won't  do  anything  simply  to 
make  you  jealous." 

"Never?" 

"Not  this  side  of  Jordan.  I'm  longing — to  kiss  you." 

"I'm  still  your  favourite  person?" 

"I  worship  you." 

She  could  feel  his  breath  on  her  neck  as  he  whis- 
pered : 

"It's  a  week  since  I've  kissed  you." 

"It  seems  more." 

"Sure?" 

"Kindly  do  not  cross-examine  me.  Will  you  come 
in  to  supper?" 

"On  one  condition.  That  you  take  me  home  im- 
mediately after." 

He  gladly  granted  her  terms.  But  Lashbridge  would 
not  let  him  go.  He  must  be  introduced  to  Lord  Wilt- 
shire, an  honour  impossible  to  decline.  Introduction 
led  to  introduction.  Only  at  half-past  three,  when  it 
was  too  late  for  him  to  go  to  Green  Street,  did  they 
leave  Carlton  House  Terrace.  This  was  a  great  dis- 
appointment to  Gwendolen.  But  his  tenderness  to  her 
as  she  nestled  at  his  side  in  the  motor,  formed  something 
of  a  consolation. 

Noiselessly  the  electric  brougham  glided  through  the 
empty  streets. 


CARLTON  HOUSE  TERRACE      139 

"This  is  happiness,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper  of  con- 
tentment. "You  are  so  wonderful  and  so  clever.  You 
make  me  afraid.  Say  that  we  shall  always  be  happy, 
darling?" 

"Always  and  always." 

"But  you  don't  tell  me  that  often  enough.  I  don't 
think  you  quite  realise  what  an  exquisite  joy  it  is  for 
a  woman  to  be.  told  that  she  is  loved.  I  like  to  be  told 
it  again  and  again,  because  I  know  that  you  have 
never  lied  to  me.  And  I'm  sure  you  never  will.  You 
couldn't  look  me  in  the  eyes  and  say  that  you  were 
still  the  same  if  another  woman  were  taking  you 
away  ?" 

"There  will  never  be  another  woman.  Besides  loving 
you,  I  like  you.  It  seems  a  commonplace  sort  of  thing 
to  say,  little  girl.  But  passion  is  all  the  better  for  be- 
ing founded  on  common-sense." 

"No,  it  isn't.  That's  just  where  you're  wrong.  If 
common-sense  told  you  that  it  was  imprudent  for  you 
to  love  a  married  woman — and  I  am  married  in  a  way, 
you  know — would  you  break  it  off?" 

Although  she  knew  there  was  but  one  answer  possi- 
ble, she  attached  great  importance  to  his  answer.  She 
scented  danger  to  herself  lurking  in  his  success. 

"And  I  want  to  say  this  for  myself,  Richard.  I 
haven't  stood  in  your  way  up  till  now.  And  I  must  ask 
you  to  remember  that  when  common-sense  begins  to  say 
horrid  things  about  me." 

"My  darling,  there  is  no  danger.  You  are  indis- 
pensable to  me." 

The  word  "indispensable"  gave  her  more  pleasure 
than  a  million  compliments  or  words  of  loving  praise. 
It  was  a  "common-sense"  declaration.  But  anxious 
as  she  was  to  be  reassured  of  his  affection,  she  took 


140  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

equal  pleasure  in  dilating  upon  the  depth  of  her  love 
for  him. 

"Without  you  I  couldn't  exist.  If  you  were  to  tire 
of  me  I  should  kill  myself — I  should  die." 

All  women  who  have  loved  have  made  this  statement, 
firmly  believing  in  its  truth.  The  miracle  of  love  has 
come  into  their  lives.  By  love  they  live.  And  without 
love  they  are  assured  that  death  follows  automatically; 
for  their  consolation  there  is  no  prudent  proverb, 
pointing  out  in  proverbial  fashion  the  eternal  truth 
of  the  absolutely  obvious.  The  fact  that  a  woman 
has  loved  one  man  proves  her  capacity  for  loving 
another.  Primarily,  we  are  in  love  with  love ;  in  a 
secondary  degree  with  another  person.  Qui  a  aime, 
aimera. 

She  persisted : 

"You  must  never  give  me  up.  You  have  taught  me 
love.  Each  has  learnt  love  from  the  other.  It  would 
be  treason  for  you  to  abandon  me." 

"There  is  no  fear  for  the  future,  my  darling.  Every- 
thing is  going  well  with  me — and  it  is  all  through  you.'* 

He  spoke  very  tenderly  under  the  spell  of  her  beauty, 
her  tenderness. 

"You  will  never,  never  give  me  up — not  for  any- 
thing?" 

"Who  was  it,"  he  laughed,  with  his  arm  about  her, 
"who  discovered  that  a  woman  was  a  cross  between  an 
angel  and  an  idiot?  Which  are  you — chiefly?" 

"I  was  an  angel  once.  I  may  be  an  idiot  later.  But 
I'm  a  woman  now.  Don't  you  notice  it  ?" 

Glorying  in  her  self-surrender,  she  threw  her  arms 
about  him,  and  covered  his  lips  with  kisses.  Her  cloak 
had  slipped  from  her  shoulders,  and  the  gleaming  white 
of  her  skin  held  him  rigid  with  emotion. 


CARLTON  HOUSE  TERRACE       141 

"There  has  never  been  anything  so  sweet  in  all  the 
world,"  he  said,  between  the  kisses.  He  breathed  her 
perfume.  "You  are  wonderful,  and  I  worship  you." 

He  turned  out  the  light — in  the  silence  she  felt  that 
his  love  was  altogether  hers. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MRS.    AINSLIE    AND    THE    PARTNERSHIP 

THE  next  day  Richard  was  installed  in  his  new  cham- 
bers at  No.  14  Essex  Court.  With  almost  paternal 
pride,  Moseley  pointed  to  the  shelves,  well-filled  with 
imposing  volumes,  admirably  selected.  There  were  two 
rows  of  handsome  leather  bindings  which  at  once  at- 
tracted Richard's  eye.  The  clerk,  in  reply  to  a  ques- 
tioning glance,  answered: 

"No,  sir,  they  aren't  any  use.  They're  completely 
out  of  date.  But  they  make  a  capital  show — a  sort  of 
shop  window,  so  to  speak.  Three  pounds  the  lot  I  paid 
for  them.  But  the  other  books  are  all  up  to  date,  and  I 
managed  to  get  them  very,  very  cheap." 

A  rich  but  sombre  carpet  lay  on  the  floor  beneath 
a  couple  of  good  tables  and  a  set  of  solid  chairs  in  black 
oak  and  red  leather. 

"Second-hand,"  said  Moseley,  in  a  tone  that  implied 
a  compliment.  On  one  table  lay  four  bulky  briefs  repre- 
senting fees  of  over  three  hundred  guineas.  They 
came  from  firms  of  very  high  standing. 

"Not  so  bad  to  begin  with,  sir." 

"Bad,  by  Jove!  It's  wonderful,  John.  Absolutely 
wonderful !" 

New  enthusiasm  kindled  in  his  eyes.  He  now  occu- 
pied a  firm  position  from  which  to  attack  the  citadel  of 
success.  He  felt  that  he  was  surrounded  by  the  acces- 
sories necessary  to  and  in  themselves  indicative  of  a 
considerable  legal  personality.  From  that  table  opin- 


MRS.  AIXSLIE  AND  THE  PARTNERSHIP    143 

ions  contrary  to  those  of  consulting  attorneys  could 
be  delivered  with  weight.  By  stretching  out  a  hand 
from  his  chair  he  could  seize  the  exact  volume  necessary 
to  refute  their  theories.  The  stage  was  set,  and  he  had 
no  sort  of  doubt  but  that  he  could  admirably  sustain 
his  part.  Though  neither  of  the  brothers  suspected  it, 
the  barrister  and  the  actor  were  very  much  alike  in  tem- 
perament. Each  had  a  longing,  not  only  for  success, 
but  for  its  symbols. 

"There's  one  thing  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about, 
sir.  I  found  a  lot  of  rubbish  in  one  of  your  drawers. 
I've  put  it  in  this  box.  I  suppose  it  may  as  well  be 
thrown  away." 

Richard  examined  a  curious  mixture:  old  pipes,  old 
letters,  decrepit  penholders,  ineffective  pencil-cases. 

"Most  of  these  can  be  thrown  away.  Ah,  no,"  he 
pensively  said,  as  he  took  up  a  lady's  white  glove,  very 
dirty  at  the  fingers,  "I'll  keep  that." 

He  did  not,  while  rescuing  Gwendolen's  glove,  notice 
the  clerk's  inquiring  glance,  that  belied  the  amused 
twitch  of  his  mouth. 

"And  this  old  collar." 

"You  can't  want  that,  sir!" 

"Yes,  it's  marked  «N.  C.'  It  belonged  to  Neill 
Cream,  the  murderer,  the  man  who  collected  corpses  of 
women,  just  as  children  collect  postage  stamps.  This 
revolver,  too,  I  want ;  and  there  are  the  cartridges  that 
go  with  it.  The  thing  was  given  to  me  by  old  Crowder, 
the  coroner,  a  friend  of  my  father's.  It  is  in  a  filthy 
state.  Have  it  cleaned  up.  The  revolver  was  a  per- 
quisite of  his.  Some  poor  devil  committed  suicide  with 
it.  I  was  at  Maryborough  at  the  time,  and  I  remember 
that  this  revolver  was  the  first  thing  that  made  me  take 
an  interest  in  crime." 


144  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"But,"  cried  Moseley  in  alarm,  "you  are  not  think- 
ing of  doing  much  at  the  Criminal  Bar!  There's  no 
money  in  it,  sir." 

"Crime  is  the  most  interesting  subject  that  exists. 
The  respectable,  the  wealthy,  the  aristocratic  criminal 
is  now  playing  a  very  leading  part  in  our  lives.  To 
make  a  success  at  the  Common  Law  Bar  a  man  must 
have  a  sound  knowledge  of  the  criminal  side.  Look  at 
Russell,  and  Clarke,  and  Willie  Mathews,  and  Charlie 
Gill.  You  may  take  it  for  granted  that  in  most  im- 
portant civil  cases  one  of  the  parties,  plaintiff  or  de- 
fendant, petitioner  or  co-respondent,  ought  to  be  in  the 
dock,  and  you've  got  to  know." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  there  was  emotion  in  his 
voice : 

"Thank  you,  John,  a  thousand  times.  I  think  you've 
made  me." 

"I  fancy  we  shall  do  fairly  well,  sir,  in  these  cham- 
bers." 

Thus  the  contract  of  partnership  was  clinched. 

But  the  clerk,  as  he  went  out  of  the  room,  felt 
something  of  dissatisfaction  at  the  objects  which  his 
master  had  seen  fit  to  retain  out  of  the  rubbish 
heap. 

"I  wonder  who  the  woman  is,"  he  reflected.  "It 
wasn't  an  old  glove,  and  it  hadn't  been  cleaned.  I  sup- 
pose it's  going  on  still,  whatever  it  was." 

He  had  noticed  that  nobody  had  been  practising 
mathematics  on  the  inside. 

He  decided  to  consult  Jubb. 

A  few  days  afterwards  he  met  that  shambling  fellow 
in  Essex  Court.  Now  it  happened  that  in  addition 
to  his  other  great  gifts,  Moseley  was  a  master  of  the 
tart  of  when  and  how  to  stand  drinks. 


MRS.  AINSLIE  AND  THE  PARTNERSHIP     145 

"Mr.  Jubb,"  said  he,  "if  you  happen  to  be  so  dis- 
posed, will  you  come  to  the  'Devereux  Arms'?" 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  having  a  'tiddley'  myself," 
Jubb  answered,  finding  himself — not  altogether  unex- 
pectedly— so  disposed. 

Persons  of  Bacchanalian  tendencies  always  call  alco- 
hol by  an  alias. 

They  allude  to  drinking  bouts  by  flippant  nicknames. 
It  is  possible  that  by  this  practice  they  are  convinced 
that  they  consume  only  temperance  beverages,  and  are, 
themselves,  teetotalers.  In  the  somewhat  dismal  bar- 
parlour  of  the  "Devereux,"  Moseley  found  that  Jubb 
behaved  as  a  man  with  a  grievance. 

"What  do  you  want,  a  millionaire  like  you,  to  come 
back  to  business  and  take  the  bread  out  of  other  people's 
mouths  ?" 

The  exaggeration  of  his  language  was  intended  to 
disguise  his  bitterness  at  the  loss  of  Meyville. 

"What  bread?  How  much  was  he  making  with  you? 
Nothing." 

"Ah,  but  I  gave  him  his  start.  I  got  him  that  Yoghi 
case." 

Moseley  smiled  at  the  palpable  lie. 

The  other  moodily  continued,  tapping  the  bar-coun- 
ter with  his  glass: 

"And  now  he's  made  a  hit !  In  a  year  or  so  he'll  be 
the  fashion.  The  papers  are  full  of  him  now — pictures 
and  what  not — and  Society  gossip.  I  tell  you  he's 
being  boomed  like  a  hair-restorer  or  a  music-hall  singer. 
He's  as  bad  as — well,  we  won't  mention  no  names.  We 
don't  need  to,  Mr.  Moseley,  both  of  us  being  in  the 
know." 

"How's  he  being  boomed?  Who's  doing  it?  No 
such  thing." 


146  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Now,  look  here,  Mr.  Moseley,  what  is  there  in  this 
Yoghi  case  to  make  all  this  fuss  about  ?  Anybody  could 
have  done  what  he  did.  Of  course,  the  case  was  so  dis- 
gusting that  it  hit  the  public  taste.  But  it's  not  the 
case  nor  yet  the  Yoghi  that  people  talk  about.  It's  him 
— Mr.  Richard  Meyville  here,  Mr.  Richard  Meyville 
there.  Photo  of  ditto  in  wig  and  gown;  ditto  in  a 
fancy  vest.  Lord,  it  makes  me  sick,  all  this  Barnum 
business.  Yes,  I  will  have  another  special  Scotch,  and 
soda  to  match.  Yours  a  small  soda !  You  never  was  a 
sportsman." 

There  are  people  who  regard  the  consumption  of 
drink  as  a  branch  of  sport.  They  also  look  upon  the 
loss  of  money  by  the  backing  of  their  unfounded  'fan- 
cies' in  the  same  light. 

"All  that  doesn't  show  who's  doing  the  booming," 
said  Moseley.  "I  shouldn't  go  about  talking  such  non- 
sense if  I  were  you.  I  shouldn't  indeed." 

"Oh,  you'd  suffer  in  silence  if  you  was  me,  would  you  ? 
You'd  let  somebody  come  and  take  away  the  man  you've 
made;  mind  you,  made,  and  set  him  up  in  fine  style! 
And  fill  the  papers  with  his  pictures,  just  as  though 
he  was  Seymour  Hicks,  and  say  nothing  about  it ! 
Well,  I'm  human,  and  I  don't  mind  confessing  it  in  this 
very  bar-parlour.  Meyville  was  my  ewe-lamb,  as  the 
saying  is,  and  that  infernal  trollop  took  him  away." 

"Who  are  you  calling  a  trollop  now,  Mr.  Jubb?" 

"Well,  we  needn't  mention  names,  you  not  being  in 
the  know." 

"It's  all  moonshine.  He  is  not  that  sort.  This  .is  all 
spite." 

"Oh,  is  it?  Doesn't  she  drive  up  in  her  carriage  and 
pair?  Isn't  she  ringing  up  on  the  telephone — '2835 
Mayfair' — all  day,  till  I'm  sick  of  it?" 


MRS.  AINSLIE  AND  THE  PARTNERSHIP    U7 

"Oh,  that's  her  number  ?— '2835  May  fair'!"  Moseley 
triumphantly  said.  "We'll  see  all  about  this  trollop 
and  no  mistake.  And  what's  more,  I  don't  like  your 
tone,  Mr.  Jubb,  and  my  governor  won't  like  it  either. 
And  your  governor  won't  be  too  well  pleased  when  he 
hears  the  full  facts,  which  he  will  do — if  you  go  about 
scandal-mongering  any  more,  and  don't  you  forget  it." 

Moseley  loomed  large  over  the  miserable  little  man. 

"Oh,  don't  be  too  hard  on  a  fellow  when  he's  down." 

"So  you're  down,  are  you?  Well,  mopping  whisky 
all  day,  and  telling  lies  about  'ewe-lambs'  won't  get 
you  up  in  the  world,  so  don't  think  it." 

"I'm  not  as  young  as  I  was,  Mr.  Moseley,"  pleaded 
the  other  hopelessly. 

"Oh,  now  it's  your  lost  youth  and  beauty  is  it? 
What's  the  truth  about  2835  Mayfair?  Who  is  she?" 

Jubb  seemed  on  the  point  of  shedding  tears  of  alco- 
hol as  he  blurted  out: 

"She's  Mrs.  Ainslie — and  lives  in  Green  Street — and 
she  called  me — a  caretaker — and  I  ought  to  have 
answered  something  bitter  and  sarcastic.  But  she  was 
so  beautiful  that  you'll  hardly  believe  it — the  words 
didn't  somehow  come." 

"What's  she  like?" 

"You  know  the  sort,  all  hats  and  veils  and  things 
that  jingle — more  like  a  respondent  than  anything  else, 
I  should  say — or,  perhaps,  an  intervener — now  I  come 
to  think  of  it — I  should  say,  Mr.  Moseley,  judging  by 
appearances — not  that  one  should  rightly  judge  by 
appearances,  that  she's  married." 

"What  makes  you  think  she's  married?" 

"Well,  she's  Mrs.,  ain't  she?" 

"Oh,  that's  nothing  nowadays,  Mr.  Jubb." 

"I  saw  her  wedding-ring  when  she  took  her  glove  off." 


148  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Why  did  she  do  that?" 

"She  threw  the  glove  in  the  waste-paper  basket." 

Here,  indeed,  was  light.     John  pursued  the  subject: 

"What  for?" 

"She  happened  to  touch  something  in  the  chambers, 
and  it  happened  to  be  dirty." 

"Yes,  you  saw  to  that.  Trust  you  for  dirt.  But 
she  may  be  a  widow." 

An  alliance  with  a  wealthy  widow  would  have  met 
with  John's  complete  and  entire  approval. 

"I  looked  her  up  in  the  Court  Guide.  And  there  is 
a  Mr.  Ainslie.  To  be  sure,  our  Court  Guide  is  three 
years  old.  A  great  deal  can  happen  in  three  years. 
We  are  here  to-day,  Mr.  Moseley,  and  gone  to-mor- 
row," he  sadly  said. 

"Oh,  don't  you  worry  about  that.  You'll  be  in  the 
Devereux  Arms  till  it  falls  down.  Do  you  know  any 
more?" 

"No,  I  only  saw  her  once.  But  I've  heard  a  deal  of 
talk  on  the  telephone — soft  talk,  as  one  might  say. 
Still,  it's  my  belief  that  she's  more  in  love  with  him 
than  he  with  her.  But  that  don't  need  to  make  any 
difference.  It  was  the  same  with  me  and  my  missus." 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  said  Moseley,  who  had 
caught  a  nod  from  Durham's  ultra-shrewd  and  over- 
dressed clerk.  "You  get  back  to  Chambers,  and  if 
there  are  any  briefs  come  in  for  us  this  afternoon, 
mind  you  send  them  on." 

"How  many  more  do  you  want?  Three  came  in  this 
morning.  It's  awful  to  see  the  work  go  away — all 
from  first-class  solicitors — Godfrey's  and  such  like.  It's 
taking  the  bread  out  of  my  mouth,  Mr.  Moseley,  it  is 
indeed." 

The  notice  of  Richard's  removal  had  not  yet  been 


MRS.  AINSLIE  AND  THE  PARTNERSHIP    149 

put  up  at  10  Essex  Court,  and  the  unfortunate  Jubb 
opened  the  door  to  brief-bearing  clerks,  and  from  the 
window  mournfully  watched  them  across  the  court  to 
No.  14. 

When  he  had  shambled  out,  Durham's  clerk  ap- 
proached Moseley. 

"I  was  on  my  way  to  your  place.  I've  got  rather 
a  good  thing  for  your  governor." 

"We're  not  laying  ourselves  out  for  criminal  work. 
Our  line  is  Common  Law  and  Parliamentary." 

"Oh,  we  do  consent  to  go  into  Court  if  we're  pressed  ? 
Do  we  draw  the  line  at  a  cause  celebre?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Lord  Islington." 

"Nonsense;  he  fled  the  country,  and  you  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  the  Treasury  has  decided  not  to 
prosecute  peers  or  dignitaries  of  the  Church  for  that 
sort  of  thing.  He  was  given  the  'office'  and  cleared 
out  in  time.  And  no  wonder.  According  to  all 
accounts,  he  was  right,  because  his  was  a  devilish  bad 
case." 

Durham's  clerk  acceded: 

"It  was." 

The  accentuation  could  not  be  accidental. 

Immediately  Moseley  understood.  In  a  low  voice 
he  asked: 

"All  the  witnesses  out  of  the  country?" 

"For  the  last  week  we've  been  doing  a  big  export 
business.  Islington  will  have  to  pay  my  boss  2,000 
guineas  for — well,  holiday  trips  for  these  coves." 

His  hands  suggested  the  infinite.     Then  he  added: 

"We've  always  acted  for  the  brute  in  his  little  trou- 
bles. And  we've  done  this  pretty  neatly.  The  case 
for  the  prosecution  is — well,  it's  in  different  parts  of 


150  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

different  continents.  Now  before  the  Treasury  get 
wind  of  this  and  withdraw  the  warrant,  Islington  sur- 
renders. He  says,  'What  have  you  against  me?  Let 
us  hear  all  about  it.  I  have  been  abroad  for  my  health. 
Directly  I  am  well  enough,  you  see  me  here.  Do  your 
worst.'  The  Treasury  will  be  able  to  do  nothing.  But 
Islington's  case  was  so  notorious  that  they  had  to 
pretend  to  do  something." 

Moseley's  face  expressed  no  surprise  or  other  emo- 
tion. 

The  solicitor's  clerk  persisted: 

"Will  your  governor  be  at  the  police-court,  Marl- 
borough  Street,  to-morrow  at  eleven?" 

"How  much?" 

"Five  guineas." 

"This  is  my  busy  day.  When  I  want  real  humour  I 
go  to  a  music-hall." 

"Five  guineas  for  five  minutes !  It'll  be  a  smash  up, 
I  tell  you.  How  much  will  you  do  it  for  ?" 

"Fifty." 

"You're  the  funny  man  now." 

"I  tell  you  we  don't  want  to  do  it  at  all.  We're 
not  going  to  specialise  in  this  sort  of  work." 

"The  Yoghi  wasn't  altogether  a  dream  of  fair 
women,  was  it?" 

"I  tell  you  we  don't  want  this  sort  of  thing.  We 
can  pick  and  choose." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  want  to  be  standing  Counsel  to 
a  Kindergarten." 

"There's  a  lot  of  difference  between  a  Kindergar- 
ten— and  Islington." 

The  other  laughed.     "I'll  give  you  fifty,"  he  said. 

Moseley  had  asked  a  prohibitive,  a  preposterous 
price.  He  did  not  want  Richard  to  do  the  work.  On 


MRS.  AINSLIE  AND  THE  PARTNERSHIP     151 

the  other  hand,  Lord  Islington,  a  Jew  of  immense 
wealth,  knowing  that  he  was  about  to  reestablish  his 
good  name,  and  appreciating  the  vast  amount  of  inter- 
est centred  in  Richard,  had  wired  from  Paris  to  have 
him  retained.  He  wished  to  rehabilitate  himself  with 
as  much  publicity  as  possible.  To  be  represented  by 
Durham,  whose  reputation  for  crafty  walking  in  devi- 
ous ways  was  almost  unique,  would  have  been  ill-advised. 

"All  right.  Come  round  and  see  the  governor.  He'll 
give  you  five  minutes." 

"Will  he?  Do  I  enter  on  my  knees  and  sing  a  sim- 
ple hymn  of  praise?  Please  put  me  up  to  any  tips." 

John  did  not  reply  to  the  sarcasm.  He  was  won- 
dering what  effect  Mrs.  Ainslie  would  have  on  the  part- 
nership. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    MUNIFICENCE    OF    MONTAGUE 

THREE  days  after  Ethel's  presentation,  Richard  and 
Billy  were  seated  in  the  dining-room  at  Gloucester 
Terrace.  The  conditions  under  which  they  dined  were 
infinitely  less  unfavourable  than  those  that  charac- 
terised the  previous  entertainment.  For  Lady  Mey- 
ville  and  Ethel  the  excitement  of  the  Drawing-room 
had  proved  a  delight.  It  was  clear  that  Billy  was 
really  in  love.  True,  his  love  was  boisterous  and  bla- 
tant, but  obviously  he  was  devoted  to  Ethel.  Out  of 
business-hours  he  was  always  with  her,  at  dinners, 
theatres,  dances.  Saturdays  and  Sundays  were  spent 
at  Raningham,  of  which  he  was  a  member,  or  on  the 
river.  In  the  duties  of  a  fiance  no  one  could  have  been 
more  efficient  than  he. 

Also,  Richard  had  modified  his  attitude  on  those  few 
occasions  when  he  met  Billy.  He  himself  having  secured 
another  unpopular  success  in  the  affair  of  Lord  Isling- 
ton, had  considerably  increased  his  popularity  with 
clients.  After  the  whirling  life  of  the  Law  Courts,  he 
spent  most  of  his  evenings  with  Gwendolen.  At  all 
"first  nights"  they  were  together.  Gwendolen  received 
invitations  to  dine,  "with  poor  Mr.  Ainslie,  if  he  is 
well  enough — if  not,  do  come  yourself.  We  are  asking 
Mr.  Meyville."  Their  "friendship"  was  "accepted," 
except  by  those  unfortunate  persons  whose  "friend- 
ships" were  "misinterpreted."  For  this  comfortable 
state  of  things,  their  own  personal  popularity,  their 
good  looks  and  high  spirits,  were,  in  the  main,  respon- 


THE  MUNIFICENCE  OF  MONTAGUE        153 

sible.  Still,  no  doubt  Mr.  Ainslie's  Monologues  on 
Maladies  had  also  procured  much  sympathy  for  the 
happy  couple.  Also,  Lashbridge  and  Pamela  were  very 
kind.  The  four  were  frequently  seen  dining  at  the  Ritz, 
and  afterwards  at  a  theatre. 

An  indiscreet  paragraph  in  The  Morning  Star,  to 
the  effect  that  "Last  night  Lord  Lashbridge  was  enter- 
taining Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard  Meyville  at  Prince's 
Restaurant,"  really  expressed  the  accepted  view  of  the 
situation.  There  was  an  agreeable  touch  of  prophecy 
about  it.  The  duty  of  the  Society  chronicler  is  to  be 
in  advance  of  the  amateur  scandalmonger.  For  Rich- 
ard the  experience  of  the  last  few  weeks  had  been 
delightful.  He  enjoyed  to  the  full  the  wonderful  pleas- 
ure that  comes  to  him  who  wears  the  laurels  of  Fame  in 
his  youth.  No  longer  did  new  friends,  intelligently 
scrutinising  his  shorn  face,  hazard  the  question,  "You 
are  at  the  Bar,  I  suppose?"  The  mention  of  his  name 
was  always  received  with  a  quickening  look  of  interest. 
Young,  handsome,  beloved  to  the  utmost  of  his  desire, 
all  was  well  with  Richard. 

As  he  sat  at  the  table  in  the  fulness  of  postprandial 
satisfaction,  he  took  a  not  unkindly  interest  in  William 
Brinstable.  A  new  cook,  a  non-adherent  to  the  Hydrau- 
lic School  of  British  Cookery,  had  been  installed  in 
Gloucester  Terrace.  Admirable  port,  of  Richard's 
selection,  was  upon  the  table.  They  were  both  smoking 
Cortina  Mora  cigars.  The  "after-dinner  feeling"  was 
upon  them.  Strange  types,  strangely  united,  these 
future  brothers-in-law.  Each  presented  a  perfect  pic- 
ture of  contentment,  completely  satisfied  in  mind  and 
body.  Richard,  sleek,  alert,  with  that  touch  of  the 
ascetic  necessary  to  the  complete  enjoyment  of  each 
faculty,  eager  and  keen  as  an  undrawn  sword;  Billy, 


154  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

bulbous  from  the  good  things  of  the  past,  puffing  out 
smoke  at  the  altar  of  the  Future. 

His  very  appearance  was  reassuring,  and  Richard, 
overwhelmed  by  the  optimism  of  prosperity,  sought 
to  brush  from  his  mind  all  misgivings  as  to  his  stout 
companion. 

"Another  glass  of  wine — Billy." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  used  the  diminutive 
to  describe  his  portly  guest. 

"Right  oh!  Good  wine  needs  no  bush.  But  Billy 
needs  good  wine,"  he  answered  with  a  cheeriness  so 
genuine  that  it  was  not  actually  unpleasant. 

"Dick,  old  boy,  I've  taken  that  house  in  Tilney 
Street,"  he  said,  pouring  out  the  port ;  "it's  small,  but 
it's  smart — devilish  smart.  One  minute  from  Stan- 
hope Gate.  The  neatest  little  crib  in  all  May  fair." 

And  he  lay  back  with  satisfaction,  giving  full  play 
to  his  adiposity. 

Richard  regarded  his  stoutness  attentively.  It 
mystified  him.  The  development  was  not  comic.  It 
was  not  actually  coarse.  Under  what  classification, 
other  than  that  of  unnecessary  things,  did  it  come? 
He  tried  to  compel  himself  to  admit  that  it  stood  for 
respectability.  This  pre-middle-aged  corpulence,  he 
thought,  might  perhaps  be  the  trade-mark  of  stability. 
No  man  of  forty  who  had  a  care  in  the  world  could 
carry  his  fat  with  such  complete  complacency. 

"I  was  in  two  minds  about  taking  the  house  yester- 
day, because  of  the  premium,"  he  said ;  "but  Ethel  was 
all  for  it;  she  loves  it;  and,  bless  her,  she  deserves  all 
that  Billy  can  provide,  and  you  may  tell  her  I  said  so. 
But,  damn  it,  when  I  looked  up  the  fashionable  intel- 
ligence in  The  Morning  Post,  and  saw  that  on  the  29th 
of  this  month  she  is  to  be  Mrs.  Bill,  I  drove  down  to  the 


THE  MUNIFICENCE  OF  MONTAGUE       155 

agent's  and  took  the  house.  But  I  got  'em  to  cut  the 
premium  down  one-third,  as  a  wedding  present  to  little 
Bill,  on  whom  you  may  note  there  are  no  flies — not  a 
fly  per  acre." 

"Pretty  expensive  to  keep  up?" 

"What  does  it  matter?  Business  is  booming.  We've 
got  hold  of  a  lot  of  new  things,  amongst  others  two 
gilt-edged  prospectuses,  things  as  safe  as  Trust  Funds. 
No  dividends  of  one,  decimal  34726  for  Venables, 
Hampton  and  Brinstable.  Don't  think  it.  Funny 
this.  I  don't  wish  to  boast.  I'm  blunt,  but  I  bar  bom- 
bast. Still,  I  can't  help  feeling  that  I've  brought 
good  luck  all  round.  Where  were  you  before  I  met  you  ? 
God  knows.  Now  you  can  take  silk  next  year,  if  you 
like.  I'm  not  flattering  you,  Dick,  old  boy,  but  your  rise 
has  been  miraculous.  Montie,  after  a  shoal  of  failures, 
has  got  a  winner.  And  Ethel — well,  she's  got  me" 

Laughing  heartily,  he  clapped  his  hand  on  Richard's 
shoulder  with  such  violence  as  to  amount  almost  to. 
assault  and  battery.  When  Richard  had  recovered, 
the  hearty  man  continued: 

"I  don't  want  to  be  egotistical  about  being  a  mas- 
cot, but  Billy  has  the  best  luck  of  any  of  you.  He's 
got  the  best  girl  in  this  rotund  orb  to  wife — as  the 
saying  is.  She's  got  to  be  treated  like  a  princess — 
only  more  so.  She's  got  to  have  everything  she  wants. 
And,  further,  she's  got  to  want  everything  Billy  can 

get.  Directly  she  said  she  cared  for  me Do  I 

bore  you?  People  hate  being  told  home-truths  about 
their  sisters.  Directly  she  said  she  cared  for  me,  I 
began  to  look  round.  And  I  said  to  myself,  'Billy,  my 
boy,  she's  done  you  a  devilish  good  turn.  You're  ugly 
and — it  must  be  admitted — you  are  perhaps  a  little — 
vulgar.'  That's  what  I  said." 


156  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Richard  negatived  the  suggestion,  but  Billy  was 
firm. 

"I  am  vulgar,"  he  said.  "I'm  fat.  I'm  red.  Damn 
it,  I'm  devilish  vulgar — so  devilish  vulgar  that  I  ought 
to  be  devilish  rich.  That's  the  only  thing  that  you 
can  do  with  a  shape  like  mine.  Make  it  symbolic. 
Until  I  met  Ethel,  I  was  content  with  catering  for  Billy 
in  a  small  way.  But — directly  I  found  she  was  in  love 
with  me,  I  saw  I  was  out  of  the  picture.  We  don't 
match.  She's — well,  she's  a  pearl  o'  price.  And  I — 
well,  in  appearance  I'm  a  bit  porcine.  So  I  bestirred 
myself.  I  looked  round.  I  took  thought  for  the  mor- 
row. The  business  was  in  my  hands.  And  I've  worked 
wonders.  Everything  is  going  deuced  well  and  will  go 
better.  And  I've  got  to  thank  Ethel  for  it,  from  A  to 
Z  and  back  again.  She's  made  Billy  what  he  is,  and 
what  he  will  be,  God  bless  her." 

The  quaint,  confidential  jargon,  the  amorous,  semi- 
alcoholic  excitement  and  the  self-appreciating  egotism 
of  the  man  were  not  without  their  fascination  for  Rich- 
ard. Billy  was  a  personality;  and  to  a  personality 
much  may  be  forgiven.  Also,  a  personality  is  generally 
successful.  Originally  Richard  had  regarded  him  as  a 
monstrous  burlesque.  But  Billy  stood  out  firm,  clear, 
and  distinct — a  comprehensive  character.  Two  facts, 
though  overlooked  by  him,  had  contributed  to  this 
result.  They  were  subjective  and  objective.  Richard 
was  a  huge  success.  Billy  was  devotedly  attached  to 
Ethel. 

At  this  moment,  the  door  opened,  and  Lady  Meyville, 
followed  by  Ethel,  came  into  the  room.  In  her  hand 
was  an  opened  telegram. 

"Oh,  this  is  too  bad,  Richard.  We  must  postpone 
the  wedding." 


THE  MUNIFICENCE  OF  MONTAGUE       157 

"What !"  shouted  Billy,  magenta  with  emotion,  "who 
has  the  infernal ' 

"This  is  from  Montague " 

"He  dares !"  Richard  read  out  the  telegram.  "Have 
matinee  on  Wednesday,  29th.  Surprised  you  did  not 
consult  me. — MONTAGUE." 

Richard  turned  livid. 

Billy  subsided  into  his  chair,  heaving  with  fat  merri- 
ment. 

"This  beats  all,"  he  groaned,  as  the  laughter  sank 
into  ripples  of  mirth,  "there  will  never  be  such  impu- 
dence again  on  God's  fair  earth.  The  thing  ought  to 
be  published — if  only  there  was  a  comic  paper  in  this 
country." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  laughing  at,  William. 
You  see,  he  has  signed  the  telegram  'Montague'  instead 
of  'Montie.'  He  must  be  very  much  annoyed." 

Lady  Meyville's  sense  of  the  ridiculous  had  never 
been  stirred  by  any  action  of  her  eldest  son's. 

Ethel,  on  whose  face  there  was  no  trace  of  anxiety 
or  sorrow,  charming  in  a  dinner  dress  of  turquoise-blue, 
came  to  the  rescue  with  a  rashness  not  altogether  devoid 
of  grim  humour. 

"I  think  we  should  fix  the  wedding  for  the  day  after 
Montie  is  knighted." 

Puzzled,  Lady  Meyville  sought  a  defence : 

"Montie  will  lose  a  lot  of  money  if  the  matinee  is 
postponed." 

"My  dear  mother,  we  can't  ask  him  to  do  that,"  said 
Richard,  gravely;  "we  shall  lose  money,  too,  if  the 
wedding  is  postponed." 

"The  invitations  have  been  sent  out.  How  much  are 
wedding-cards  a  dozen?"  asked  Ethel,  sarcastically. 

"We  must  find  out,  old  girl,"  Billy  answered,  "and 


158  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

he  can  deduct  the  out-of-pocket  expenses  from  his  wed- 
ding present." 

But  Richard  could  not  control  his  indignation  to  the 
extent  of  commenting  upon  the  matter. 

"Do  you  think  he  means  it  as  a  joke?"  inquired  Billy, 
seeking  vainly  for  a  solution. 

"No,  he  doesn't.  He  never  means  anything  as  a 
joke.  He  is  a  joke.  He  is  the  worst  sort — the  uncon- 
scious brand." 

The  other  announced : 

"This  man  ought  to  be  kicked." 

Richard  entirely  agreed  with  him. 

Incipient  Anti-Montaguism  formed  a  bond  of  sym- 
pathy between  the  two. 

Richard  went  to  his  mother's  writing-desk,  took  out 
a  telegraph  form,  and  wrote : 

"Do  not  postpone  matinee  on  any  account.  I  have 
no  wish  to  see  the  piece  again. — ETHEL." 

The  telegram  did  not  find  favour  in  Lady  Meyville's 
eyes,  but  the  others  were  amused.  The  message  was 
despatched. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  was  that  Richard  called 
upon  his  brother  in  Park  Place,  early  on  the  following 
morning.  He  found  the  actor  in  bed. 

"Confound  it;  don't  pull  up  the  blind,"  was  his 
greeting. 

Montague  turned  on  the  electric  light,  shaded  by 
daintily  becoming  pink  silk.  Immediately  Richard 
found  himself  in  a  sort  of  National  Portrait  Gallery 
of  Contemporary  Female  Beauty. 

Panels,  cabinets,  miniatures  were  there  in  rich  pro- 
fusion. But  in  the  faint  light  he  recognised  the  artists 
more  easily  than  the  sitters.  On  sumptuous  staircases 
were  the  works  of  Lafayette ;  Alfred  Ellis  dealt  chiefly 


THE  MUNIFICENCE  OF  MONTAGUE        159 

with  ladies  who  were  looking  over  their  shoulders  to 
avoid  contiguous  palm-trees;  while  Alice  Hughes  pho- 
tographed only  ladies  interested  in  horticulture,  flower- 
bearing,  as  though  advertising  the  produce  of  some 
seedsman,  and  Lallie  Charles  photographed  women  as 
they  believed  themselves  to  be. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  pink  glow,  he  was  surprised  at 
the  hard  lines  that  were  graven  on  his  brother's  face. 
The  continual  application  of  "make-up"  had  exag- 
gerated his  features  and  made  him  look  like  a  walnut; 
with  his  grey  hair  dishevelled  as  he  lay  in  bed  he 
seemed  only  a  crude  scenario  of  "Charles  Stuart." 

In  the  effeminate  luxury  of  his  silken  surroundings 
he  suggested  a  decrepit  dowager  rather  than  anything 
masculine. 

"I'm  so  sorry  you  won't  be  able  to  give  Ethel  away," 
he  began  casually,  "but,  after  all,  business  is  business. 
And  I  suppose  Art  is  Art." 

Not  yet  completely  in  possession  of  his  full  faculties, 
the  other  stroked  his  forehead: 

"Oh,  yes,  I  got  a  silly  telegram  from  her.  What 
does  it  mean?" 

"What  do  you  think  it  means?  It  means  that  she 
doesn't  want  her  marriage  to  stand  in  the  way  of  your 
matinee.  That's  sisterly,  isn't  it?" 

"That's  nonsense.  I  must  be  present  at  my  sister's 
wedding!  Who  else  could  give  her  away?" 

"Oh,  I  could  do  that — at  a  pinch." 

In  surprise  at  such  a  proposal,  Montague  sat  up 
in  bed,  revealing  extremely  beautiful  tartan  silk 
pyjamas. 

"I'm  the  elder  brother — it's  my  duty." 

He  had  looked  forward  to  acquiring  considerable 
publicity  from  the  marriage  of  his  pretty  sister. 


160  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Already  he  had  imagined  himself — in  a  brown  frock- 
coat,  trimmed,  possibly,  with  black  braid — walking  up 
the  aisle  by  her  side.  He  had  decided  to  make  the 
marriage  a  great  social  and  artistic  function !  And 
this  was  his  reward!  He  wasn't  wanted!  They  could 
get  on  without  him,  without  Montague  Cliftonville. 
It  seemed  incredible.  Yet  so  it  was. 

In  spite  of  the  affront  he  behaved  nobly. 

"I  shall  postpone  the  matinee,"  he  said,  as  though 
taking  a  decision  of  European  importance.  "But  I 
should  have  been  consulted." 

Without  one  word  of  the  expected  gratitude,  Richard 
asked  coldly : 

"What  are  you  giving  her  for  a  wedding  present?" 

"Well,  I've  been  thinking  of  that  a  good  deal.  You 
see,  although  you  are  getting  on  very  well,  you  can't 
have  much  money  in  hand.  Now,  if  I  were  to  give  her  a 
tiara,  or  anything  like  that,  my  present  would  dwarf 
yours.  Now  I  naturally  don't  want  to  do  that.  You 
see — between  ourselves — I'm  only  an  actor,  whilst  you 
are  a  member  of  a  recognized  profession.  It  wouldn't 
be  in  good  taste  for  me  to  do  anything  showy." 

"Well,  I'm  only  giving  her  two  hundred  pounds  to 
buy  anything  she  likes  with." 

"What !" 

"I  know  it's  very  little.  But  it's  the  best  I  can  do. 
And  don't  let  me  stand  in  the  way  of  your  generosity. 
I  shan't  mind  if  you  give  her  a  tiara,  and  I'm  sure  she'd 
like  it." 

Montague  groaned. 

"I  think  the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  give  her  a 
cheque." 

"For  how  much?" 

After  a  pause,  Montague  said: 


THE  MUNIFICENCE  OF  MONTAGUE         161 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  old  boy,  money  is  devilish 
tight.  I've  got  such  a  lot  of  expenses." 

"I  know  you're  a  pretty  costly  person.  You  never 
deny  yourself  anything." 

"Except  a  wife,"  the  other  alertly  cried.  "Except 
a  wife.  If  only  I  could  afford  to  be  married!  But  I 
can't.  Look  at  all  these  women,"  he  waved  dramatic- 
ally at  the  photographs.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
I'll  have  a  large  envelope  placed  among  the  wedding 
presents — 'Cheque  from  Mr.  Montague  Cliftonville.* 
That's  what  I'll  do." 

"But  why  a  large  envelope?  Quite  a  big  cheque  can 
go  into  a  small  envelope." 

"I  know,  I  know.  That's  the  trouble,"  he  answered 
vaguely. 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"I  can't  afford  just  now  to  draw  a  cheque  for  a  large 
sum,  and  it  would  be  absurd  for  me  to  give  her  a 
hundred  or  two  hundred  pounds.  It  would  look  mean 
if  anybody  heard  about  it.  Later,  when  things  are 
better,  I'll  do  the  handsome." 

"You  propose  at  present  giving  her  a  large  empty 
envelope  ?" 

"That's  special  pleading,"  answered  the  actor 
vaguely. 

Montague  always  regarded  any  unpleasant  statement 
as  special  pleading. 

"No.     I  only  asked  you  a  question." 

"Don't  put  words  in  my  mouth."  This  was  another 
favourite  repartee  of  his. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  as  well." 

"Besides  the  present  of  stationery?  Besides  the 
practical  joke?" 

"Yes,  yes.     I'll  invite  all  the  wedding  party  to  the 


162  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

theatre — not  all,  of  course — but  a  good  many — the 
smartest.  Say  two  hundred.  That's  a  present  of  a 
hundred  guineas." 

Alarmed  at  his  own  generosity,  he  shook  his  head: 

"I  doubt  if  my  business  manager  will  like  that.  I 
doubt  it  very  much." 

As  Richard  went  to  the  door  he  said : 

"Montague,  if  you  had  a  sense  of  humour  you'd 
amuse  yourself  very  much." 

"I  wonder  what  the  devil  he  means,"  the  actor 
thought  as  he  turned  over  on  his  side. 


MONTAGUE  took  a  great  deal  of  trouble  over  his 
sister's  wedding.  His  advertising  agent  was  inde- 
fatigable. Indeed,  that  able  assistant  could  not  have 
given  much  more  publicity  to  the  affair  had  it  been 
"The  Chief"  himself  who  was  being  married.  Photo- 
graphs of  Ethel  and  Billy  appeared  in  all  the  illus- 
trated papers.  Ladies'  journals  asked  for  the  bride's 
opinions  on  married  life.  She  was  invited  to  dilate  on 
the  advantages  of  short  engagements  and  long  honey- 
moons. 

On  the  9th  July  le  tout  Bayswater  flocked  to  the 
Church  of  St.  Michael  and  All  Sepulchres. 

Montague  secured  the  attendance  of  a  few  peers  and 
peeresses,  histrionically-minded  archdeacons,  smart  wid- 
owettes  in  large  hats,  and  the  leading  members  of  the 
theatrical  profession. 

To  the  strains  of  "The  Voice  that  breathed  o'er 
Eden,"  he,  in  an  admirably  cut  grey  frockcoat,  led 
Ethel  up  the  aisle.  There  were  tears  in  Lady  Mey- 
ville's  eyes  as  she  stood  by  Richard's  side. 

Afterwards,  at  the  Bayswater  Palace  Hotel,  Mon- 
tague brought  real  joy  to  her.  He  behaved  delight- 
fully. So  affable,  indeed,  was  he  that  she  ventured  to 
introduce  Mrs.  Bolitho  and  Mrs.  Pegram  to  him.  He 
spoke  quite  kindly  of  Smelhurst,  and  said  that  it  ought 
to  have  a  theatre.  He,  however,  became  a  little  restive 
over  one  of  Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce's  experiences  with 
kitchen-maids,  and,  to  save  himself,  offered  to  introduce 


164  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

her  to  Mrs.  Ainslie,  who  was  talking  to  Richard.  On 
the  relationship  being  explained,  he  saved  the  situation 
with  a  compliment  which  was  uncomplimentary  to 
Gwendolen.  He  said  they  were  so  much  alike  that  he 
felt  sure  they  could  not  be  related. 

The  actor  was  in  great  good  humour.  Things  had 
been  going  well  with  him.  Only  this  morning  he  had 
been  informed  (by  one  who  spoke  with  knowledge)  that 
it  was  quite  probable  that  he  would  next  year  be 
invited  to  the  Royal  Enclosure  at  Ascot.  Also,  the 
affair  of  the  Phoenix  had  been  amicably  settled.  By 
way  of  compensation  for  the  alleged  affront,  the  editor 
had  promised  to  publish  a  special  Montague  Cliftonville 
Supplement,  containing  pictures  of  the  player  in  his 
"greatest  creations."  The  agreement  had  been  put  into 
writing,  and  the  paper  was  bound  to  do  a  thing  which 
it  had  never  done  before.  It  would  be  a  splendid  adver- 
tisement, and  would  surely  place  him  ahead  of  the  other 
competitors  for  the  knighthood. 

"Your  brother's  acting  very  well  to-day,"  said  Gwen- 
dolen. 

Richard  laughed,  as  he  saw  Montie  standing  with 
an  affectionate  hand  on  Lady  Meyville's  waist,  whilst 
the  handsome  old  lady  looked  gratefully  into  his  eyes. 
"Yes,  it's  a  good  performance,  Gwen.  But  this  sort 
of  thing  is  natural  to  him.  It  isn't  hypocrisy.  He 
always  fancies  himself  in  the  presence  of  an  audience." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  it.  At  the  garden-party  last  year 
at  Windsor  someone  said  that  he  had  kneecaps  in  his 
pocket  ready  to  kneel  down  and  be  knighted  at  a 
moment's  notice.  Here  he  is  again." 

Graciously  the  actor  held  Gwen's  hand. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Ainslie,  how  good  of  you  to  come! 
How  very,  very  good!  Such  a  perfect  dress.  Ah! — 


"AN  EMINENT  ACTOR'S  SISTER"  165 

you  know  how  to  wear  your  clothes.  So  few  women, 
even  on  the  stage,  know  how  to  wear  their  clothes. 
Ah! — and  the  beautiful  diamond  and  sapphire  brooch 
you  gave  my  dear  little  sister — quite,  quite  charming! 
Very  like  the  one  I  wore  in  the  second  act  of  Charles 
Stuart.  You  may  have  noticed  it." 

Gwen  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Who  could  help  noticing  any  brooch  you  wear? 
You  wear  your  brooches  so  wonderfully  well." 

He  smiled: 

"Flatterer !  But  I  like  people  to  say  nice  things. 
Nice  things  are  the  dividend  that " 

He  could  not  finish  the  epigram.  "I've  got  the 
scenario,"  he  explained  good-humouredly,  "but  I  can't 
work  out  the  idea.  When  I  do  I'll  send  it  you  on  a 
picture  postcard.  I'm  having  some  new  ones  done.  I 
think  you'll  like  them." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Cliftonville,  so,  so  much." 

Then  confidentially,  putting  his  hand  on  Richard's 
shoulder : 

"I  hope  he's  very  good  to  you." 

"I  have  no  complaint  to  make,  thank  you  very  much, 
Mr.  Cliftonville,"  she  answered,  with  a  twinkle  of 
amusement  in  her  eyes. 

"Montague,  surely.  Why  don't  you  call  me  Mon- 
tague? You  know  I  regard  you  almost  as — a  sister-in- 
law." 

Then  he  passed  away  on  his  quasi-regal  progress 
through  the  room. 

"Did  you  tell  him — about  us?"  she  asked. 

"No,  of  course  not.  One  can't  talk  to  him  about 
anything  but  himself.  It  would  give  him  physical 
pain." 

"Still,  he  knows — about  us." 


166  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Naturally  he  knows.  I  don't  suppose  there's  any- 
body here  who  knows  you  or  me  who  doesn't  know — 
about  us." 

There  was  a  tender  pressure  on  his  arm  as  she  said : 

"Oh,  I'm  so  proud,  so  very  proud." 

"Of— it?" 

"Of  you."  Radiantly  she  looked  at  him.  "Oh,  if 
this  was  our  own  wedding  day!" 

This  was  the  first  time  she  had  mentioned  the  sub- 
ject. A  sparkle  of  delight  came  into  his  eyes. 

By  way  of  comment  she  queried: 

"Was  that  at  the  possibility  or  at  the  idea?" 

"Both,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  you  dear  thing!  Would  you  really?  And  at 
my  age?" 

"Your  age  will  always  be  the  ideal  age  for  me." 

"I  shall  hold  you  to  that." 

"I  shall  compel  you  to.  Now  let's  go  and  drink 
Ethel's  health." 

On  their  way  her  notice  was  attracted  by  a  little 
woman,  obviously  Jewish,  but  pretty.  She  had  auburn 
hair,  a  pronounced  nose,  and  wore  too  much  powder. 
Her  grey  eyes  were  fixed  on  Billy  in  the  distance.  Her 
firm,  small  mouth  was  tight  shut.  Around  it  were  lines 
of  pain. 

"Look  at  that,"  said  Gwen,  "there's  a  tragedy  in 
that  face.  She's  suffering.  She's  interested  in  the 
bridegroom — interested  in  a  sinister  way." 

"Nonsense!"  laughed  Richard.  "The  fact  that  a 
man  is  in  the  dock  at  Bow  Street  doesn't  prove  that 
he's  committed  his  crime  in  the  dock.  The  woman 
looks  as  though  she  suffered  from  indigestion." 

"In  some  things  you  are  quite  cruel  or  quite  stupid.  I 
don't  know  which  is  the  worse.  Cruelty  is  often  the  re- 


"AN  EMINENT  ACTOR'S  SISTER"  167 

suit  of  stupidity.    Go  and  ask  your  mother  who  she  is." 

Richard  returned  with  the  information  that  she  was 
;i  Mrs.  Wagstaffe,  the  wife  of  one  of  Billy's  clients. 
Intelligence  came  into  Gwen's  eyes. 

"Why,  that's  the  woman,  Mrs.  Wagstaffe,  who  has 
given  Mr.  Brinstable  a  set  of  Hall  Caine's  works  as  a 
wedding  present.  I  was  astonished  when  I  saw  them. 
There  is  something  behind  this.  That  unhappy  little 
Jewess  is  a  woman  of  strong  character.  She  has  a 
taste  for  the  macabre.  There's  a  tragedy  here.  She's 
looking  at  him  as  I  should  look  at  you  at  your  wed- 
ding— if  I  didn't  happen  to  be  the  bride." 

"And  had  the  bad  luck  to  be  alive."     He  smiled. 

"Dear  boy,"  she  answered,  and  he  felt  her  at  his  side 
as  he  pushed  through  the  crowd. 

They  approached  the  bridegroom  and  bride,  who  were 
standing  by  a  long  refreshment  table,  Billy,  red  and 
radiant,  looking  desperately  endimanche  in  a  white  satin 
tie,  dark  grey  frockcoat,  trousers  of  a  pronounced 
shepherd's  plaid  design,  and  a  red  carnation.  Ethel, 
dignified  and  calm,  conveyed  rather  the  idea  of  placid 
well-being  than  of  nuptial  ecstasy. 

"She  looks  very  pale,"  was  the  universal  verdict, 
capped  occasionally  by  the  comment,  "Anybody  would 
look  pale  beside  Billy  Brinstable." 

And,  beyond  question,  Billy  felt  the  heat,  and  showed 
it.  Indeed,  Montague,  while  expressing  approval  of 
the  ceremony  as  a  whole,  had  stated  that  the  bride- 
groom did  not  look  tlje  part.  But  then  the  bride- 
groom's part  at  a  wedding  is  the  leading  man's  part. 
And,  of  course,  Montague — 

Richard  and  Gwendolen  congratulated  the  young 
couple. 

Billy,  beaming,  mopped  his  brow : 


168  THE. OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Thanks  awfully.  You  may  well  say  so.  This  day, 
the  ninth  day  of  July  of  the  current  year,  is  the  proud- 
est day  in  the  life  of  William  Brinstable.  And  William 
Brinstable  is  willing  to  bet  on  the  subject  with  all  and 
sundry  in  pounds,  shillings,  or  pence." 

Gwen  repressed  a  shudder. 

Turning,  she  said  to  Richard :  "Will  you  ever  forget 
that  speech?" 

She  noticed  that  he  bit  his  lip  as  he  answered:  "I 
doubt  it." 

"But,  Dick,  you  didn't  tell  me  that  your  sister  was 
marrying  a  'bounder.'  There  is  no  other  word.  In 
church  I  tried  hard  to  have  doubts.  But  now  that  he's 
spoken — oh,  Dick,  it's  terrible.  She  can't — possibly — 
love  him!" 

He  answered  abruptly: 

"He's  a  very  good  sort." 

"A  girl,  a  pretty  girl,  doesn't  marry  a  man  because 
he's  a  good  sort.  Is  he  rich?" 

"No." 

"He's  a  solicitor,  isn't  he?"  she  inquired,  searching 
her  mind  for  an  explanation  of  so  strange  a  union. 

He  looked  at  her  sharply. 

"Yes.     Well?" 

"Oh,  nothing." 

"You've  got  something  in  your  head.  And  I  know 
what  it  is;  but  you're  wrong.  Do  you  think  that 

I'd  allow  a  sister  of  mine  to  marry  a  man  like  that " 

In  his  annoyance  he  was  on  the  point  of  adding  "in 
order  to  help  me,"  but  he  pulled  himself  up  at  the 
slip.  "A  man  like  that." 

"No,  dear,  of  course  not.  But  a  sister  of  yours  must 
surely  be  so  fond  of  you  that  she  would  do  anything 
to  help  you  on." 


"AN  EMINENT  ACTOR'S  SISTER"  169 

Clearly  he  was  concealing  something  from  her,  some- 
thing that  pained  him.  Hitherto  he  had  always  come 
to  her  in  his  troubles.  He  had  appeared  to  need  her 
sympathy  in  any  sorrow.  Could  it  be  that  of  his  late 
success  had  been  born  a  feeling  of  independence  that 
would  make  her,  in  some  degree,  less  necessary  to  his 
life?  She  shot  a  questioning  glance.  But  his  eyes  did 
not  meet  hers. 

She  drove  home  with  a  slight  flutter  of  fear  in  her 
heart. 

Montague,  on  his  way  to  his  chambers,  noticed  a 
contents  bill  of  an  evening  paper: 

WEDDING  OF  AN  EMINENT  ACTOR'S  SISTER. 

"They  might  have  said  'great*  instead  of  'eminent,' ' 
he  reflected.  "Still,  one  can't  have  everything." 

Yet  in  his  heart  he  didn't  see  why  he  shouldn't. 
******* 

On  the  last  day  of  the  Trinity  term  Richard  asked 
John  to  bring  him  his  fee-book. 

The  clerk  brought  in  the  thin  red  leather  volume 
and  handed  it  to  him,  and  stood  by  his  side  as  he 
opened  it. 

"The  year  didn't  begin  very  well,  sir,"  he  said,  with 
a  comical  twitch  of  his  mouth. 

"No,  it  didn't.  But  what  have  we  made  since  our 
arrangement  ?" 

A  smile  of  pleasure  came  into  the  clerk's  face  at  the 
use  of  the  plural. 

"I've  just  totted  it  up,  sir.  It's  785  guineas.  It's 
not  as  much  as  I  expected,"  he  added,  scratching  his 
fat  chin.  "But  everything  looks  very  hopeful  now." 

"Yes,"  said  Richard,  as  he  looked  down  the  list  of 
solicitors  who  had  employed  him,  "we've  got  several 
of  the  big  firms — for  small  amounts." 


170  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"They've  all  had  a  nibble,  sir.  What  I  said  to  the 
managing  clerks  was  this :  'Come  and  try  the  gov- 
ernor. If  you  aren't  pleased,  you  needn't  come  back. 
But  if  you  don't  try  the  governor  now,  you  may  not 
be  able  to  get  him  five  years  hence — if  I'm  spared  to 
be  his  clerk.'  That's  what  I  said.  Some  of  them 
laughed.  'Think  you've  got  a  Rufus  Isaacs,  John?' 
they  asked.  And  I  replied,  'I  don't  say  I  have,  and  I 
don't  say  I  haven't.  But  I've  got  the  next  best  thing 

to  it,  and  in  two  years'  time He  broke  off, 

rubbing  his  chin  and  twisting  his  mouth.  "Well,  sir, 
perhaps  I  did  lay  it  on  a  bit  too  thick." 

Richard  laughed.  "I'm  sure  you  did.  But,  any- 
how, they  did  give  me  a  trial.  That's  the  great 
thing." 

"No,  sir,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  that  isn't  the  great 
thing.  The  great  thing  is  that  they're  all  pleased, 
every  one  of  them.  And  next  term  there  will  be  big 
work  coming  in.  Big  work  in  the  biggest  sense  of  the 
word  'work',  sir." 

"Good.  We  were  talking  about  what  was  the  great 
thing.  To  me  the  great  thing  is  whether  you're  pleased 
or  not." 

John  thought  for  a  minute,  and  then  made  this 
strange  reply: 

"No  one,  at  any  rate,  no  man — even  at  the  Bar  is 
perfect." 

Richard  was  surprised  at  the  other's  lack  of  enthu- 
siasm. 

"We're  all  human,  of  course,"  he  said,  with  an  inter- 
rogative smile. 

John  looked  at  him  deliberately. 

"Some  of  us  are  far  more  human  than  we've  any 
need  to  be." 


"AN  EMINENT  ACTOR'S  SISTER"  171 

Richard,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  there  was  no  note 
of  insolence  in  the  tone,  felt  annoyed.  Abruptly  he 
said: 

"I'm  off  to-day  to  the  country." 

"Your  address,  sir?" 

"I'm  staying  with  Lord  Lashbridge,  Lashbridge, 
Buckinghamshire." 

"Who's  chairman  of  so  many  Committees  in  the 
Lords?" 

"Yes.     Why?" 

"Nothing,  sir." 

"Well,  good-bye,  John ;  a  pleasant  holiday  to  you," 
and  he  shook  his  hand.  "Where  are  you  going?" 

"Margate,  sir,  as  usual — Monte  Margate." 

As  he  went  out  into  Essex  Court,  dirty  and  dingy, 
Richard  wondered  what  John  implied  in  accusing  him 
of  intense  humanity. 

"I  wonder  whether  he  knows — about  us!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  BOOM 

AT  the  station  his  cab  was  met  by  Gwendolen's  foot- 
man, who  showed  him  to  her  carriage.  As  he 
approached  it,  her  maid,  a  pretty  blonde,  petite  and 
dainty,  as  should  be  the  attendant  of  a  beautiful 
woman,  gave  him  a  bright  smile  of  wisdom  and  wel- 
come. 

Gwendolen  herself  was  leaning  out,  on  her  face  a 
look  of  anxiety.  When  she  saw  him,  radiant  joy 
beamed  from  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  was  afraid  you'd  be  late.  Jump  in.  We're 
just  off." 

Scarcely  was  the  train  out  of  the  station,  when  she 
pulled  up  her  veil,  took  off  his  Homburg  hat,  and 
covered  his  face  with  kisses. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  my  dear!"  he  protested,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Oh,  call  me  'darling,'  if  you  mean  it.  Call  me 
'darling'  if  you  don't.  A  little  humbug  goes  a  long 
way  with  me."  She  had  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and 
held  him  at  arm's  length,  looking  into  his  eyes.  "And 
I've  got  you  to  myself  for  a  whole  month.  Think  of 
it.  No  Wilfred.  Only  me  and  you.  No  law,  no  work, 
no  worries.  Only  me  and  you.  Me  first  now.  I'm  not 
talking  grammar,  but  I'm  talking  sense." 

"I  love  you,  my  darling,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
looking  intently  at  her.  Then  with  his  left  arm  he 


IN  THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  ROOM  173 

drew  her  towards  him,  pressing  her  closely  to  his  side. 
She,  reckless  of  her  hat,  let  her  head  rest  on  his 
shoulder  whilst  he  kissed  her  with  long  kisses  on  the 
neck. 

Her  eyes  were  closed. 

He  kissed  the  lids.     Her  frame  was  rigid. 

"God!"  he  gasped.  "We  might  be  killed  before  we 
get  to  Lashbridge." 

"Yes,"  she  whispered.  Her  lips  scarcely  moved. 
Her  eyes  opened  and  threw  at  him  a  glance  maddening 
in  its  tenderness. 

The  train  sped  on  through  lanes  of  dull,  drab  houses 
— linen  hanging  out  to  dry — children,  devoid  of  pur- 
pose, raising  shrill  cries — rattle  and  burr  and  hum — 
the  shriek  of  the  whistle — the  sun  beating  hot  on  the 
drawn  blinds — out  into  the  country. 

Wearily  leaning  back  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage, 
he  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Do  you  mind  getting  down  my  bag,  Dick?" 

He  took  down  her  travelling-bag  from  the  rack, 
and  she  took  out  an  enamelled-top  bottle  of  eau  de 
Cologne. 

"My  lips  are  cold,"  she  said. 

"Are  they?" 

"Am  I  looking  all  right?" 

"I  never  know  whether  a  woman's  hat  is  all  right  or 
not.  The  more  wrong  it  looks,  the  more  right  it  is 
supposed  to  be." 

"Give  me  the  mirror." 

As  he  handed  to  her  a. circular  mirror  of  silver  on 
which  was  enamelled  Rossetti's  Beata  Beatrix,  he  was 
struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  workmanship. 

Though  a  man  of  slight  artistic  culture,  he  took  an 
instinctive  delight  in  the  beautiful.  Good  things  gave 


174  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

him  pleasure;  bad  things  did  not  cause  him  pain. 
Such  a  temperament  is  ideal  in  an  Englishman  who 
lives  in  London  in  the  twentieth  century. 

"You  like  it?  But  you  haven't  seen  the  most  beauti- 
ful thing  about  it  yet,"  she  said  as  she  arranged  her 
veil.  Then  she  pressed  a  bulb  in  the  enamel,  and  the 
back  flew  open,  revealing  a  photograph  of  himself. 

"My  dear  girl,  you're  mad!"  he  laughed. 

"Yes,  I  am.  I'm  mad  about  you,  and  I'm  going 
madder  every  day.  What  is  love?  Egoism  a  deux. 
I  see  myself  in  the  glass.  I  see  you  here.  The  two 
people  I  worship.  But  I  worship  you  most.  I've  got 
to.  If  I  only  loved  you  as  you  seem  to  love  me,  you'd 
think  that  I  didn't  love  you  at  all.  You're  a  spoilt 
baby." 

"My  dear,  you  can't  expect  me  to  have  pictures  of 
you  concealed  in  my  boot-trees !" 

"I'm  afraid  that  would  be  asking  too  much.  But 
if  you  did  I  should  go  wild  with  joy.  You  take  so 
much  for  granted.  Women  take  nothing  for  granted. 
A  symbol  is  not  a  real  thing.  But  it's  something. 
Now,  this  little  mirror  is  a  present  that  I've  given 
myself,  from  you.  I  thought  it  out.  I  thought  it  out 
hard  for  a  long  time,  and  you  gave  it  me  as  a  surprise 
yesterday.  And  now  I'm  going  to  kiss  you  for  it." 

"Darling,"  he  laughed,  "I  should  never  have  dreamed 
of  giving  you  a  looking-glass  that  is  half  a  conjuring 
trick  and  half  a  picture  gallery." 

"I  know  you  wouldn't.  That's  why  I  have  to  remedy 
your  faults.  You  ought  to  have  known  that  I  wanted 
this,  and  told  me  to  buy  it  for  myself." 

"Why  buy  it  for  yourself?" 

"Because  it  cost  thirty  pounds,  and  my  own  private 
genius  isn't  very  rich — just  yet.  But  he's  going  to 


IN  THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  ROOM  175 

be — thank  heaven — very  soon.  Your  poverty,  Dick, 
has  been  particularly  sickening.  If  I  hadn't  loved  you 
very  enormously  hugely  much  I  should  have  been  com- 
pelled to  give  you  up.  Here  was  I  with  any  amount 
of  money,  and  you  couldn't  afford  a  flat.  Your  horri- 
ble impecuniosity  kept  us  apart.  Do  you  remember  the 
San  Marino  Hotel?"  She  laughed  at  the  remembrance. 
"Oh,  Dick,  that  was  too  awful.  But  when  I  wanted  to 
take  that  sweet  little  flat  in  Hay  Hill  for  you,  how 
furious  you  were !  For  that  piece  of  impertinence  poor, 
innocent  little  Gwendolen  was  very  nearly  sent  to — I 
think  you  did  mention  the  proprietor  of  the  great, 
undesirable  portion  of  Eternity  on  that  occasion,  didn't 
you,  Dick?" 

"He  was  alluded  to.     But  nothing  came  of  it." 

She  went  on.  "Still,  you  ought  to  have  a  valet. 
You  oughtn't  to  stay  at  a  place  like  Lashbridge  with- 
out a  man.  If  one  hasn't  got  somebody  of  one's  own 
to  run  one  down  in  the  servant's  hall,  one  can't  hope 
to  be  treated  with  respect.  If  you  don't  pay  a  servant 
of  your  own  to  slander  you,  all  the  other  servants 
think  it's  their  duty  to  do  it.  They  assume  that  you 
are  too  monstrous  to  dare  to  travel  with  a  servant." 

"Servants,"  he  admitted,  "are  an  extraordinary  race. 
No  one  will  ever  understand  them.  A  servant  is  the 
hardest  person  in  the  world  to  cross-examine — except, 
perhaps,  a  mining  engineer." 

"No  one  has  written  accurately  about  them  in  this 
country.  There  is,  of  course,  Octave  Mirbeau's  Journal 
d'une  Femme  de  Chambre.  How  I  wish  you  could  read 
French !  No,  'Joseph  Andrews'  is  not  of  any  real  value 
to-day.  But  I  could  write  a  book  on  servants  if  I 
could  write,  which,  thank  heaven,  I  can't.  If  you  give 
up  loving  me,  I  may  take  to  writing.  Each  book  would 


176  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

be  an  epitaph  on  a  dead  heart.  Remember,  a  dead 
heart  dies  daily.  It  is  always  dying.  Yes,  I  think  I 
could  write — not  a  novel — a  convenient  handbook  on 
servants.  I  have  inherited  my  great  talent  from  my 
mother,  who  is — I  say  it,  Dick,  without  pride — the 
leading  housekeeper  in  Bayswater." 

He  nodded: 

"I  have  had  long  talks  with  her.  You  are  giving 
her  no  undue  praise.  It  has  always  been  a  source  of 
amazement  to  me  that  no  prisoner  at  the  Old  Bailey 
has  ever  urged  in  mitigation  of  punishment,  'My  lord, 
I  was  for  some  time  in  the  service  of  Mrs.  Paxton- 
Pryce.'  If  the  judge  had  the  pleasure  of  your  mother's 
acquaintance  the  plea  would  have  carried  considerable 
weight." 

As  the  train  drew  up  at  the  station,  Gwen  said: 

"The  great  charm  of  being  in  love  isn't  that  one 
always  talks  about  oneself,  but  that  one  can  talk 
nonsense  that  is  infinitely  more  interesting  than  sense." 

Lord  Lashbridge  had  sent  a  motor  to  meet  them, 
and  it  was  with  huge  pleasure  that  Richard,  his  mis- 
tress by  his  side,  drove  through  the  oak  avenue  leading 
to  the  old  Tudor  Hall.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he 
had  ever  stayed  in  a  great  country  house ;  also,  he  felt 
supremely  happy. 

"We're  to  have  a  month's  honeymoon,"  murmured 
Gwen.  "Ten  days  here,  and  then  we  go  on  to  the 
Plymboroughs,  in  Norfolk.  Lord  Plymborough — since 
his  divorce — is  quite  as  skilful  a  host  as  Lord  Lash- 
bridge." 

"Good,"  he  answered,  "we  shall  have  a  capital  time." 

Lashbridge  received  them  cordially  in  the  hall. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Gwen,  that  I  couldn't  induce  Wil- 
fred to  come.  I  think  you  really  ought  to  meet  him 


IN  THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  ROOM  177 

oftener.  He  tells  me  that  he  is  devoted  to  Mr.  Mey- 
ville,  but  hardly  ever  sees  him.  If  he  could  have  been 
persuaded  to  come  here  instead  of  going  to  Marienbad, 
I  could  have  fitted  up  a  private  sanatorium  for  him  in 
the  west  wing.  Your  rooms,  good  people,  are  in  the 
east  wing.  Dinner's  at  8.30.  You've  just  time  to 
dress.  Kindly  sparkle  at  dinner.  There  are,  unhap- 
pily, some  dolts  in  our  midst." 

They  were  shown  up  to  adjoining  rooms  with  a  door 
between. 

In  the  absence  of  her  maid,  Gwen  went  to  the  door 
and  tried  the  handle.  To  her  surprise,  it  was  locked. 

"Dick,  is  the  key  on  your  side?" 

"No." 

"Lashbridge  is — a  careless  host." 

However,  when  Richard  went  down  he  found  his 
host  in  the  hall. 

"Did  you  notice,  Meyville,  whether  your  inside  door 
was  locked?" 

Richard  smiled: 

"I'm  not  a  locksmith,  Lord  Lashbridge;  I  don't 
investigate  locks." 

"Well,  I  always  have  doors  between  rooms  locked. 
But" — and  he  fumbled  with  mock  seriousness  in  his 
pocket — "there's  the  key.  You  may  find  it  useful — in 
case  of  fire."  This  was  a  joke — if  joke,  indeed,  it 
was — which  he  thoroughly  enjoyed  and  invariably 
played  on  newcomers.  (Guests  at  Lashbridge  always 
spoke  of  keys  as  "fire  escapes.") 

That  evening  Gwendolen  and  Richard  were  one  of 
the  topics  of  conversation  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  a 
large,  cold  apartment,  with  sporting  prints  on  the 
walls.  It  was  one  of  Lashbridge's  eccentricities  that  he 
insisted  on  all  the  servants  having  their  meals  to- 


178  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

gether.  He  had  a  rooted  objection  to  a  "Pugs'  Room" 
for  the  upper  servants. 

At  one  end  of  a  long  table  presided  Mudge,  the 
butler,  fat  and  pompous,  intensely  episcopal  of  demean- 
our, a  very  bishop  among  butlers.  The  eighteen  upper 
servants,  valets,  masseurs,  and  maids  of  the  guests  were 
seated  at  supper  while  the  under  servants  waited  upon 
them.  At  Mudge's  right  hand  was  Leah,  Mrs.  Ainslie's 
maid. 

"Anybody  know  anything  about  the  actor-looking 
man  in  the  pink  velvet  room  No.  2?  I  don't  think," 
said  the  groom  of  the  chambers,  looking  round,  "as  he's 
brought  a  gentleman  with  him?" 

"No.  2  pink,"  reflected  an  upper  housemaid.  "That's 
a  Mr.  Meyville,  him  as  is  with  the  woman  they  call 
'the  beautiful  Mrs.  Ainslie,'  your  lady,  Mamzelle,  I 
think." 

"Yes,  Miss.  He  is  an  avocat,  ires  distingue,"  replied 
Leah. 

"I'm  not  saying  he's  not  distinguished,"  said  Mudge 
judicially,  "as  an  avocat,  which  I  comprehend  to  mean 
an  advocate  or  lawyer  fellow.  But  I  take  exception 
to  a  man  staying  in  a  house,  a  great  house,  as  the 
saying  is,  without  bringing  a  gentleman  with  him." 

"I  had  to  put  out  his  things,"  broke  in  Payne,  Lord 
Lashbridge's  confidential  man.  "And  I  g'ive  you  my 
word  I  never  saw  such  things !  Not  a  decent  make 
in  the  lot.  Boots  from  Baker  Street.  Hosier  anom- 
alous. So  I  looked  in  the  breast  pocket  of  a  blue  serge. 
What  do  you  think  I  found?  Tibbies  and  Carter,  308 
Strand— Stock," 

He  paused  in  horror. 

"You  don't  say  so,  Mr.  Payne !"  exclaimed  the  butler, 
with  eyes  wide  open  in  astonishment.  "Ready-made!" 


IN  THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  ROOM  179 

"True  bill,  Mr.  Mudge.    Reach-me-downs !" 

Mr.  Mudge  was  pained  and  grieved.  He  visited  his 
emotions  on  an  attendant  footman. 

"Less  noise  with  them  plates,  Joseph.  Remember, 
you're  not  in  the  dining-room.  We  know  what  waiting 
is.  Don't  we,  Mamzelle?  I  didn't  quite  catch  your 
name?" 

"Duboc,  Monsieur." 

"And  quite   a  sensible-shaped  name — for  a  French 
name,"  he  said  kindly.     "Now,  what  about  your  Mrs. 
Ainslie?     I  suppose,  judging  by  the  proximity  of  the 
apartments,  she  is  the  lawyer's  lot!" 
'    "Elle  adore  ce  Monsieur" 

"And  the  husband?    Mr.  Ainslie?" 

"II  n'existe  pas.    C'est  un  mari  pour  rire." 

The  gestures  accompanying  her  words  made  them 
intelligible  to  Mr.  Mudge. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  be  too  sure.  I've  known  cases  of 
worms  turning,  and  turning,  bless  my  heart,  into  ser- 
pents, fangs  and  all.  There  was  Lord  Plymborough's 
divorce  case.  I  was  rather  a  prominent  witness  in 
Lord  Plymborough's  case.  I  was  butler  to  the  peti- 
tioner, a  stockbroker,  but  well  conducted.  Here, 
Joseph,  go  up  to  my  room  and  fetch  my  Press-cutting 
book." 

In  the  absence  of  Joseph. the  assembly  listened  with 
awe  to  Mr.  Mudge's  account  of  his  connection  with  that 
celebrated  case,  and  complimented  him  on  his  perform- 
ance. 

When  the  book  appeared  he  explained  its  exist- 
ence: 

"I  had  just  stepped  out  of  the  witness  box  for  the 
court  to  adjourn  for  my  re-examination  when  a 
man  comes  up  to  me.  'Mr.  Mudge,'  he  said,  'if  I  may 


180  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

take  the  liberty,  I  represent  a  Press-cutting  agency, 
and  after  the  sensational  evidence  you've  given  to-day 
there'll  be  lots  about  you  in  the  papers.  Several  artists 
have  been  drawing  your  picture.  You  might  like  to 
have  the  articles  and  the  pictures  as  a  memento  of  the 
occasion.  A  guinea  for  a  hundred  and  twenty-five.'  So 
I  gave  him  the  money,  and  there  you  are,"  he  added 
proudly ;  "eighty-six  bits  and  pictures  all  about  me ! 
That  pink  one  is  a  joke  out  of  the  Pink  'Un  itself. 
Devilish  hot  stuff  it  is.  Whenever  I  take  it  up  for  a 
read,  I  always  laugh,  even  now,  I  do  assure  you." 

"Sans  doute  fa  doit  etre  ires  spirituel,  mais  mal- 
heureusement  je  ne  comprends  pas.  C'est  un  caleirt- 
bour,  sans  doute." 

"No,  no.  Calembourg  is  a  cheese.  This  is  a  joke — 
thing  to  laugh  at.  Comprenny?" 

"C'est  extraordinaire.     Pas  banal,  fa." 

"It  is  extraordinary.  You've  hit  it,  and  a  Press- 
cutting  agency  is  extraordinary.  There  was  a  man 
called  Mudge  run  in  for  robbery  with  violence  some 
years  ago.  And  blessed  if  they  didn't  send  me  the 
bit  about  him.  I  wrote  and  told  them  I  didn't  want 
to  know  all  about  all  Mudges.  I  was  the  only  Mudge 
I  wanted  to  hear  about." 

"But  they  owe  you  a  lot  of  cuttings  still,"  said 
Pinker,  Lady  Violet  Goring's  maid.  Lady  Violet  had 
literary  tastes,  and  Pinker  thoroughly  understood  the 
Press-cutting  system. 

"Perhaps,"  Hodson,  Lord  Croxpeth's  man  suggested, 
"they  will  remember  you  at  your  next  divorce." 

Very  solemnly  Mr.  Mudge  replied : 

"I  sincerely  trust  there  won't  be  no  next  divorce  for 
me.  It  gives  a  butler  a  bad  name  to  figure  too  much 
before  the  public.  I  very  nearly  missed  getting  this 


IN  THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  ROOM  181 

billet  owing  to  Lashbridge  remembering  the  affair,  and, 
mind  you,  it  ain't  easy  to  forget,  part  of  it  having 
been  heard  en  camarade,  as  the  French  say,  don't  they, 
Mamzelle?" 

"Mais  out,  Monsieur.  Certainement.  On  dit  tou- 
jours  fa." 

"I  don't  care  whether  you're  butlers,  or  footmen,  or 
steward's-room  boys,  or  ladies'  attendants,  you  keep 
clear  of  the  divorce  court,"  he  continued  warningly.  "It 
never  did  anyone  in  our  profession  any  good.  If  you 
don't  believe  me,  ask  my  friend  Mr.  Younghusband. 
He  was  butler  to  Plymborough.  And  after  the  case 
he  couldn't  get  a  place  to  suit  him — not  town  and 
country.  Poor  old  fellow,  he  had  to  take  service  with 
a  parvenu  who  didn't  run  to  a  country  establishment." 

"Comment  done!"  exclaimed  Leah,  "Mistaire  Young- 
husband,  un  grand  maigre!  A  tall,  thin — but  dis- 
tingue?" 

"That's  him.  That's  Henry.  The  judge,  I  remem- 
ber, was  very  rude  about  Henry.  His  lordship  hap- 
pened to  dine  with  us  once.  I  saw  to  it  that  he  had  a 
pretty  poor  dinner!  Lor',  I  got  a  special  bottle  of 
tenants'  dance  champagne  out  of  the  cellar  with  my 
own  hands  for  his  lordship.  So  you  know  Mr.  Young- 
husband,  do  you,  Mamzelle?" 

"Why,  he  is  at  our  'ouse.  II  est  maitre  d'hotel  chez 
nous." 

"Well,  I  hope  the  family  gives  him  satisfaction." 

"Comme  ci,  comme  fa.    Monsieur  est  assez  difficile." 

"He  knows  about  the  lawyer  fellow  and  your  lady?" 

"Assurement." 

"He  would  do.    There's  nothing  Henry  don't  notice." 

Then  Leah  asked  Mr.  Mudge  as  to  the  working  of 
an  eccentric  notice  in  the  bedrooms: 


182  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Lord  Lashbridge  requests  that  his  guests  will  not 
assist  him  in  the  payment  of  his  servants'  wages." 

Surprise  and  horror  spread  over  that  great  man's 
face. 

"Mamzelle,"  he  replied,  "being  a  foreigner — no 
offence  to  her,  but  rather  sympathy — may  not  under- 
stand us.  The  gentlemen  who  stay  in  this  house  are 
gentlemen  who  knows  how  to  behave  themselves  as  such. 
They  know  that  his  lordship's  notice  is  a  humorous 
pleasantry,  and  as  such  they  treat  it." 

"Hear,  hear !"  from  all  sides. 

"And  though,"  continued  the  butler,  "his  lord- 
ship has  particularly  desired  me  to  bring  to  his 
personal  notice  any  abnegation  of  his  instructions 
to  his  friends,  only  once  have  I  found  occasion  for  so 
doing." 

"Tell  us,"  was  the  general  demand. 

"There  was  a  person  staying  here  of  the  name  of 
Colquhoun.  His  lordship  didn't  know  him.  He  came,  I 
think,  with  Lady  Ellerston,  who  afterwards  went  bank- 
rupt— no  class,  though  she  had  manners — in  a  way.  I 
thought  there  was  something  wrong  about  this  Col- 
quhoun as  soon  as  I  set  eyes  on  him.  He  was  too 
affable  and  chatty  with  me.  Well,  after  staying  a 
week — a  week,  mind  you — he  gave  me — what  do  you 
think " 

Someone  hazarded : 

"A  quid?" 

"Ten— bob." 

"Shame!    The  bounder!" 

"Well,  I  brought  the  matter  to  his  lordship's  notice. 
He  was  rightly  annoyed,  and  a  few  days  afterwards 
he  told  me  privately  that  the  Colquhoun  was  a  Sheeny 
stockbroker  of  the  real  name  of  Cohen.  We  were  very 


IN  THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  ROOM  183 

indignant,  and  we've  never  had  Lady  Ellerston  to  the 
house  since." 

General  sympathy  was  expressed  for  Mr.  Mudge. 

"By  the  bye,  Mr.  Mudge,"  inquired  Lord  Croxpeth's 
man,  "who  is  Lashbridge  with  now?  Last  time  I  was 
here  it  was  with  Lady  Mary  Kirkham,  Darlington's 
daughter." 

"Oh,  that's  all  over.  We  soon  got  tired  of  her. 
Not  enough  go  for  us.  You'll  pardon  me,  Mr.  Hod- 
son,"  the  butler  said  sternly,  "Lord  Lashbridge  to  you. 
Lashbridge  to  me,  because  he's  my  man.  I  should  be 
lacking  in  respect  to  you  personally  if  I  spoke  direct 
to  you  of  Croxpeth  without  the  prefixture." 

"Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Mudge,  it  shall  not  occur  again. 
A  mere  slip  of  the  tongue,"  replied  the  humbled  valet. 

"Granted,  Mr.  Hodson.  Etiquette  is  one  thing,  for- 
getfulness  another.  In  reply  to  your  query  as  to  what 
Lashbridge  is  up  to  just  now,  I  can't  say,"  he  con- 
tinued, leaning  back  and  placing  his  fingers  in  the 
armholes  of  his  waistcoat.  "We  were  very  busy  in 
the  season.  We  put  in  a  deal  of  good  work.  His 
lordship  was  quite  at  his  best." 

"I  can  tell  you,"  came  a  voice  from  the  other  end 
of  the  table. 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  the  head  chauffeur. 

"Mrs.  Ainslie  lives  in  Green  Street.  Three  times  a 
week  regular  I  stay  outside  the  house  over  an  hour. 
Why,  bless  me,  I  know  the  door  by  heart !  Forty-eight 
bars  in  the  area  railings.  Mrs.  Ainslie's  the  latest. 
And  I  don't  blame  him.  She's  about  «the  only  really 
beautiful  society  woman  I  ever  saw.  If  I  had  my  way 
I'd  scrub  'em." 

"Impossible!"  exclaimed  Leah  indignantly.  "C'est 
ridicule!" 


184  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"What  say?"  asked  the  chauffeur,  leaning  forward. 

"This  lady  is  Mrs.  Ainslie's  maid,"  Mr.  Mudge  ex- 
plained. "She  ought  to  know  it.  She  ain't  kidding." 

"Catch  a  Frenchie  not  giving  away  her  lady  if  she 
has  the  chance!"  commented  an  English  maid. 

Volubly  Leah  defended  her  mistress. 

"Elle  adore  Monsieur  Meyville,  jusqu'aux  bouts  des 
ongles.  Elle  lui  est  absolument  fidele.  Pour  moi,  il  le 
merite.  C'est  un  Tiomme  serieux,  un  garpon  charmant 
comme  il  n'y  a  pas  beaucoup." 

Mr.  Mudge  caught  the  drift : 

"She's  a  good  sort,  and  she'll  stick  to  Mr.  Mey- 
ville?" 

"A  good  sort!  mats  yes.  I  was  a  Paquinette — a 
girl  at  Paquin's.  She  took  me  from  zere.  She  is 
adorable,  et  moi,  je  I'adore." 

"All  the  same,  if  Lashbridge  is  serious,  that  lawyer 
chap  won't  have  a  chance,"  was  Mudge's  view.  "The 
port,  Joseph." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  first  footman  had  evidence  to  offer : 

"If  the  one — the  governor's  special — is  present  at 
the  table,  I  never  make  a  mistake.  There's  always  a 
peculiar  look  in  his  lordship's  eye  when  he  looks  at 
her.  It  was  there  to-night,  Mr.  Mudge.  Mrs.  Ainslie 
sat  two  off  him.  And  now  and  then  he  looked  at  her 
with  that  photographic  look  he  has.  It's  a  dead  cert." 

Mr.  Mudge  poured  out  the  port. 

"You  will  join  me  in  a  glass,  Mamzelle.  Here's  to 
his  lordship's  good  luck !" 

.     "Je  vous  remercie,  Monsieur,"  Leah  answered,  stiffly 
nodding  a  negative. 

"Anybody  say  a  game  of  bridge?"  asked  Mr.  Mudge. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LASHBRIDGE    SEES    HIS    WAY 

"How  long  has  Lashbridge  called  you  Gwen?" 

She  raised  her  lids.  A  tired  smile  played  over  her 
face  as  she  looked  sideways  at  him. 

"Darling."     She  caressed  Richard  with  her  eyes. 

He  repeated  the  question. 

"About  three  weeks.    Jealous?" 

"What  do  you  call  him?" 

"Haven't  you  noticed?  I  call  him  'Lord  Lashbridge,' 
or,  when  I'm  in  a  hurry,  'Lash,'  like  everybody  else. 
Don't  you  like  it?" 

"I'm  not  keen  on  it." 

"Thank  you." 

"Why?" 

"It's  almost  a  sign  of  jealousy." 

She  gave  a  long  sigh  of  complete  physical  content. 

"You're  very  strong,  dear.     I'm  very  tired." 

"The  journey  was  fatiguing?" 

She  smiled.     "You're  very  fatiguing." 

"I  bore  you?" 

"To  death,"  she  laughed.  Then,  suddenly,  "What's 
the  time?" 

He  fumbled  under  the  pillow  for  his  watch. 

"A  quarter-past  eight." 

"I  must  be  going,  Dick.    I  ordered  tea  at  half-past." 

At  dinner  that  day  Richard,  feeling  sure  of  his 
ground,  occasionally  held  the  table.  He,  however,  did 
not  commit  the  error  so  common  in  pushing  barristers 
of  telling  anecdotes  illustrative  of  their  forensic  acumen. 


186  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Pamela,  on  his  left,  plied  him  with  questions  as  to  the 
minutest  details  of  Montague's  life,  and  he,  loyally, 
drew  a  beautiful  picture  of  the  eminent  man.  Event- 
ually he  brought  a  gleam  of  light  into  her  eyes  by 
promising  that  she  should  meet  his  brother  at  luncheon. 

Mr.  Mudge,  who  presided  over  all,  caught  sight  of 
the  gleam,  and  in  his  mind  foresaw  the  possibility  of  a 
woeful  mesalliance  for  Lady  Pamela. 

Of  Gwendolen  that  night  Richard  was  prouder  than 
usual.  Obviously  she  was  the  prettiest  woman  present, 
and  when  she  spoke,  loud  laughter  followed.  Then  she 
threw  a  glance  at  him  in  quest  of  approval  and  of 
regret  that  he  hadn't  heard  the  jest. 

They  were  talking  of  personal  popularity  and  the 
difficulty  of  defining  its  cause.  She  had  maintained 
that  the  secret  of  popularity  lay  in  an  unlimited  ability 
to  listen. 

"In  order  to  be  really  popular,"  said  Lord  Crox- 
peth,  "a  man  should  be  a  failure  in  life.  A  man  who 
is  successful  never  has  time  to  devote  to  his  friends. 
He  is  always  taking  thought  for  the  day  after  to- 
morrow; whereas  I,  for  one,  shouldn't  hesitate  to  bore 
a  failure  to  death.  Have  we  any  failures  here  to- 
night?" Croxpeth  was  a  wisp  of  a  man,  remarkable 
chiefly  for  his  frankly  odd  clothes.  Each  article,  from 
his  hat  to  his  boots,  he  designed  himself.  And, 
strangely  enough,  the  whole  effect  was  distinguished, 
without  any  suggestion  of  caricature.  "No,  we  have 
no  failures  here,  except,"  and  he  bowed,  "except  our 
host.  But  he  is  such  an  eminent  failure  that  he  may 
be  regarded  almost  as  a  success." 

Lashbridge,  amused,  answered: 

"Thank  you,  Crox,  for  your  kindly  appreciation. 
On  the  whole,  I'm  not  miserable." 


LASHBRIDGE  SEES  HIS  WAY  187 

He  threw  the  "photographic"  glance,  mentioned  by 
the  first  footman,  at  Gwendolen.  Mr.  Mudge  noted  it 
in  its  flight. 

"No,"  he  continued,  "one  is  rather  handicapped  if 
one  happens  to  be  a  peer.  'After  all,  what  is  the  dis- 
tinction of  winning  the  Derby?" 

"Someone  has  got  to  win  the  Derby,"  said  Gwen. 

"Precisely ;  the  institution  was  created  for  that  pur- 
pose. And  as  for  politics — well,  it  would  never  give 
me  any  real  pleasure  to  tell  a  mass  meeting  of  com- 
plete strangers  that  I  had  definitely  decided  to  plough 
a  lonely  furrow  and  then  rush  off  to  Newmarket  and 
wire  to  the  Times  that  I  couldn't  get  a  plough  to  suit 
me.  These  are  the  politics  of  a  peer." 

"People,"  said  Richard,  "seem  to  forget  that  for 
politics  it  is  necessary  to  have  a  policy." 

"For  success  in  politics,  Meyville,"  answered  his 
host,  "one  must  look  serious  and  be  dull.  It  is  no 
good  to  be  really  serious  and  merely  to  pretend  to 
be  dull.  The  dulness,  at  any  rate,  must  be  genuine. 
But  to  be  popular  mustn't  one  be — perhaps  a  little 
vulgar?" 

The  dinner-table  was  firmly  against  him. 

"If,"  said  Gwen,  "you  behave  as  though  you  were 
popular,  you  will  be  popular.  If  Lord  Lashbridge 
behaved  as  though  he  thought  we  should  find  him 
tedious,  we  should  all  be  bored  to  death." 

"In  my  country,"  explained  Mrs.  Cyrus  B.  Lough, 
this  time  apparently  in  a  breast-plate  of  rubies,  "the 
only  way  for  a  man  to  be  popular  is  for  him  to  have 
a  pile  of  money  and  let  his  wife  spend  it.  In  the  States 
it's  unmanly  for  a  man  to  spend  money  on  himself." 

"You've  made  some  change  since  the  time  of  the 
Mayflower,  Mrs.  Lough,"  said  Pamela. 


188  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Change!  I  should  think  so,  indeed!  Don't  talk 
to  me  about  the  crew  of  the  Mayflower!  What  were 
they?  Merely  a  handful  of  carpenters  and  joiners, 
anyway." 

Lashbridge  became  reminiscent: 

"I  remember  a  man  who  acquired  intense  popularity, 
and  eventually  took  office  under  Lord  Salisbury  in 
rather  a  curious  way.  He  used  to  make  a  point — at 
dinner-tables,  in  clubs,  anywhere — whenever  a  date  was 
mentioned,  of  saying  that  the  speaker  was  wrong,  no 
matter  whether  he  knew  anything  about  it  or  not. 
Supposing  I  said  that  the  eminent  alien  immigrant, 
William  the  Conqueror,  came  over  here  in  1066,  he 
would  assure  me  that  it  was  a  year  later  or  a  year 
previous.  Then  he  would  go  and  look  the  event  up  in 
a  dictionary  of  dates.  He  would  bide  his  time.  If  I 
was  wrong  he  would  take  me  aside  and  tell  me  secretly 
of  my  error,  and  I  would  be  grateful  to  him.  If  I 
was  right,  he  would  seize  a  pause  at  a  dinner-table 
and  say  very  loudly  indeed:  'Lashbridge  has  the  most 
extraordinary  memory  of  any  man  I  ever  met.  We 
happened  to  have  a  discussion  the  other  day  as  to  the 
date  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  or  the  invention  of 
Tatcho,  or  whatever  the  thing  was.  Lashbridge,  as 
usual,  turned  out  to  be  right.  Perfectly  astounding 
man,  Lashbridge.'  Naturally  I  felt  pleased  and  proud. 
Now,  no  one  with  any  intellect  is  ever  sure  of  a  date. 
So  whichever  way  it  turned  out,  this  fellow  made  a 
new  friend.  That's  a  tip  worth  remembering,  Mey- 
ville." 

Though  the  tone  in  which  the  last  words  were  spoken 
was  kindly  and  the  words  were  accompanied  by  a  smile, 
Richard  resented  the  deliberate  allusion  to  himself. 
This  was  one  of  the  many  occasions  on  which  Lash- 


LASHBRIDGE  SEES  HIS  WAY  189 

bridge  treated  him  with  annoying  patronage.  He 
seemed  to  wish  to  belittle  him  in  Gwen's  eyes.  He  raised 
his  eyebrows  slightly.  Gwen,  however,  shot  out: 

"Mr.  Meyville  is  not  a  commercial  traveller." 

"My  dear  Gwendolen,"  Lashbridge  almost  tenderly 
replied,  in  his  eyes  an  unmistakable  "photographic" 
glance,  "every  man  is  a  commercial  traveller  in  his  own 
personality.  He  has  to  exhibit  samples  of  it  to 
as  many  people  as  possible  and  persuade  them  to 
take  the — what's  the  word? — bulk  at  his  own  valua- 
tion." 

The  speech,  coupled  with  the  manner  of  its  delivery, 
taught  Richard  much.  It  convinced  him  that  Gwen- 
dolen had  found  far  more  favour  in  Lashbridge's  sight 
than  might  be  compatible  with  his  own  happiness. 

Late  that  night,  when  some  of  the  bridge  parties 
had  broken  up,  the  majority  of  the  guests  were  talk- 
ing over  their  drinks. 

"Hullo !"  exclaimed  Croxpeth,  who  had  taken  up  an 
illustrated  paper.  "This  is  the  limit.  The  record  is 
broken.  No  one  else  need  move  in  the  matter." 

Everyone  crowded  around: 

"Great  Scott!" 

"The  end  of  all  things !" 

"No  one  else  on  earth  would  have  done  it !" 

"Now  he'll  never  get  his  knighthood!" 

At  the  mention  of  the  word  "knighthood,"  which  was 
received  with  roars  of  laughter,  Richard  approached 
the  group.  To  his  horror  he  saw  a  photograph  of 
Edward  VII.  and  Montague.  Beneath  it  was  printed: 
"Mr.  Montague  Cliftonville  talking  to  the  King  at 
Bad-Schwerin." 

He  paled. 

"My  brother,"  he  definitely  stated,  "has  to  pursue 


190  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

the  same  methods  of  advertisement  that  are  followed 
by  other  actors." 

"Your  brother!" 

"Yes." 

In  the  clatter  of  conversation  suddenly  improvised  to 
cover  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation,  he  detected 
"And  this  chap's  a  gentleman!"  "Knighthood,  in- 
deed!" "Rogue  and  vagabond!" 

"Was  Montague  mad?"  he  asked  himself.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  actor  had  simply  arranged  with 
his  travelling  secretary  to  snapshot  him  if  ever  he  saw 
him  in  close  proximity  to  his  Majesty.  In  this  case 
the  result  obtained  had  been  very  agreeable  to  the 
actor.  The  pose  conveyed  that  Mr.  Cliftonville  was 
giving  ripe  counsel  on  affairs  of  State  to  his  Sovereign, 
with  whose  intelligence  he  appeared  pleased. 

Montague  so  much  admired  the  picture  that,  besides 
sending  it  to  all  the  papers,  he  ordered  four  enlarge- 
ments, one  for  the  hall  of  his  theatre,  another  for  his 
rooms,  and  a  third  for  his  mother.  He  very  kindly 
sent  the  fourth  to  Richard,  with  instruction  that  it 
was  "for  his  chambers."  Evidently  Montague  thought 
it  would  impress  clients.  With  what?  With  Mon- 
tague !  Richard  gave  it  to  Moseley.  Moseley  thought 
that  the  frame  might  come  in  useful. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  hall  Gwendolen,  over-per- 
suaded by  Lashbridge,  had  seated  herself  at  the  piano. 

"You  know,  Lash,  you  won't  like  it.  You  aren't 
musical." 

"I  don't  like  music,"  he  admitted,  "but  I  like  seeing 
you  sing." 

"Shall  I  sing  in  dumb  show?  What  shall  I  sing? 
Oh,  I'm  rather  fond  of  a  song  that  came  out  during 
the  Boer  War  in — the  Daily  Mall — I  think.  Every- 


LASHBRIDGE  SEES  HIS  WAY  191 

thing  seems  to  have  been  seen  in  the  Daily  Mail.  Lord 
Croxpeth  asked  me  just  now  if  I'd  seen  an  extraordi- 
nary story  about  a  man  called  Jonah  in  the  Daily  Mail. 
This  is  a  sad  song,  but  it  gets  brighter  towards  the 
finish." 

In  a  shimmering  black  dress  and  many  pearls — in 
Lalique  settings — she  looked  more  than  usually  beauti- 
ful. Her  eyes  seemed  to  gaze  in  anguish  over  distant 
seas  during  the  first  half  of  each  stanza,  and  then,  as 
the  answer  came  back  loyal  and  vigorous,  they  sparkled 
in  triumph: 

Sentinel  set  by  the  Northern  Sea, 

Is  our  day  so  dark,  and  our  Fate  so  fell, 

That  the  heart  of  our  Lady  of  Snows  should  freeze 

To  the  Motherland,  oh  Sentinel? 

"Ig  it  all  in  vain 
That  amidst  your  slain 
Lie  the  sons  of  the  White  Lady? 
Since  the  veldt  ran  red 
With  the  blood  we  shed, 
Need  ye  ask  this  thing  of  me?" 

Sentinel  set  by  the  Eastern  Sea, 
What  is  the  tale  that  the  tribesmen  tell, 
Of  the  Brahmin's  love  and  his  loyalty 
To  the  English  flag,  oh  Sentinel? 

"The  icy  breath 
Of  the  Lord  of  Death 
Has  breathed  o'er  the  Eastern  Sea; 
But  no  heart  was  cold, 
In  the  farthest  hold, 
Where  the  English  flag  flew  free." 


192  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Sentinel  set  by  the  Southern  Sea, 
What  of  the  strife  that  you  sought  to  quell, 
And  the  price  in  blood  and  chivalry? 
What  of  the  price,  oh  Sentinel? 

"We  have  won  this  strife 
For  the  Empire's  life, 
And  the  price  we  shall  never  know. 
(Could  ye  count  the  cost 
Had  the  fight  been  lost, 
And  the  English  flag  laid  low?)" 

Then  the  music  changed.  It  became  more  sonorous, 
more  vigorously  assertive  of  the  nation's  purpose: 

Sentinel  set  in  the  Western  Isle, 
Where  the  sea-bred  sons  of  the  Saxon  dwell, 
Have  you  told  the  tale  of  your  rank  and  file — 
The  tale  of  your  dead,  oh  Sentinel? 

"We  have  wept  our  dead 
With  a  heart  of  lead, 
We  have  wept  with  a  face  of  stone. 
But  the  English  race 
Shall  yield  no  place, 
Where  the  English  flag  has  flown" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  There  were  tears 
in  the  eyes  of  some  of  the  women.  For  the  singer  had 
recalled  the  agonies  of  a  dread  time.  There  were  few 
in  that  hall  who  were  not  the  poorer  for  a  life  laid 
down  in  that  terrible  period.  Gwendolen  had  suddenly 
reopened  many  a  wound.  And  to  many  hearts  came 
a  feeling  of  shame  that  the  wound  had  ever  been 
allowed  to  close. 


LASHBRIDGE  SEES  HIS  WAY  193 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  Gwendolen,"  said  Lashbridge 
as  she  rose.  There  was  a  tremor  in  his  voice  as  he 
spoke,  and  he  noticed  tears  like  dewdrops  in  her  eyes. 
Never  had  she  shown  any  emotion  in  his  presence.  This 
episode  revealed  her  in  a  new  and  extraordinarily  fas- 
cinating light.  It  seemed  to  bring  her  personality  into 
closer  touch  with  him  than  ever  before. 

Then  the  evening  broke  up. 

"Gwen,"  said  Richard  very  tenderly.  "I  want  you 
to  promise  me  one  thing.  It's  a  selfish  thing." 

"It  is  promised." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  sing  again  in  the  presence  of 
any  man  but  me.  You  seem  to  give  away  something- 
of  your  soul  when  you  sing.  I  want  you — all  of  you — 
body  and  soul." 

"Am  I  not  altogether  yours?" 

"That's  why  I  want  you  all  to  myself." 

He  buried  his  face  in  her  long  silken  hair. 

"Would  you  like  to  keep  your  song-bird  in  a  cage?" 

Her  lips  curled  into  his. 

"No,  I  want  you  to  be  admired,  but  I  don't  want 
any  man  to  get  anything  for  his  admiration." 

"Do  you  know  that  I  should  like  to  keep  you  in 
a  cage — far,  far  away  from  the  Law  Courts,  and  feed 
you  with  horrid  American  cigarettes,  and  only  take 
you  out  when  I  wanted  you?  But,"  and  she  com- 
pressed her  mouth  into  a  rosebud  of  a  pout,  "you  would 
always  be  out,  because  I  should  always  want  you, 
always  want  you,  always  and  always." 

She  emphasised  her  words  by  flinging  her  arms  close 
round  him  and  straining  him  tight  to  her  breast,  and 
drawing  in  his  breath  in  one  of  those  kisses  that  seem 
to  exhaust  the  soul. 

Then  he  said  suddenly: 


194  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  Lashbridge  is  in  love  with 
you?" 

Gaily  she  laughed: 

"Did  you  really  think  that  you  would  find  that  out 
first?" 

Sure  though  he  was  of  her  loyalty,  he  became  indig- 
nant. 

"Then  it's  true?" 

"He  hasn't  said  so.  He  won't.  He  knows.  He 
isn't  a  fool.  He  quite  understands  that  it  wouldn't  be 
any  good.  And  I  think  he  grasps  the  fact  that  if 
he  said — anything — I  should  never  speak  to  him  again. 
It  would  be  unpardonable  in  him — as  he  knows — about 
us.  Oh,  Lashbridge  plays  the  game  by  the  proper 
rules." 

Though  he  could  not  see  her  face,  her  firmness  of 
tone  satisfied  him. 

"How  long  has  this  been  going  on  ?" 

"I  think  he  began  to  fancy  he  was  in  love  one  night 
at  dinner  in  Green  Street.  You  were  there.  He  took 
to  calling  a  good  deal  afterwards.  I  think  he  became 
convinced  of  his  unfortunate  condition  to-night." 

"Ah,  it  was  your  singing." 

"Perhaps,  that  may  have  helped.  I  won't  do  it 
again." 

"Mind  you,  I  don't  think  he  likes  me." 

"Is  that  altogether — under  the  circumstances — un- 
natural? Still,  he's  never  said  so." 

"Of  course  not ;  not  to  you." 

"He's  always  been  most  enthusiastic." 

"As  you  say,  he's  playing  the  game  by  the  proper 
rules.  But,  Gwen,  he's  playing  for  you,  and  he's  going 
to  play  hard." 

"But  he's  going  to  lose,"  she  said. 


LASHBRIDGE  SEES  HIS  WAY  195 

"And,  by  Jove!"  exclaimed  Richard  from  his  heart, 
"what  a  terrible  loss,  to  love  and  lose  you,  my  darling !" 

Gwendolen  was  fairly  accurate  in  her  opinion  of 
Lashbridge.  An  expert  in  women,  he  had,  at  their  first 
meeting,  grasped  the  fairly  obvious  objective  fact  that 
she  was  an  intensely  desirable  woman.  Subsequently, 
he  realised  that  she  was  a  woman  he  could  passionately 
love.  The  sight  of  Wilfred  convinced  him  that,  beyond 
question,  she  must  have  a  lover.  On  ascertaining  that 
her  lover  was  an  impecunious  barrister,  and  brother 
of  the  incredible  Cliftonville,  he  felt  assured  of  success. 
She  was  so  clearly  a  woman  who  demanded,  physically 
and  mentally,  the  companionship  of  an  artist  in  affec- 
tion. And  a  young  barrister  would  either  be  a  foolish, 
rattling  fellow,  or  a  lean,  yellow  stick  with  a  parch- 
ment soul.  At  the  idea  of  such  a  liaison,  his  opinion 
of  Gwendolen  had  sunk  in  a  degree.  A  woman's  valua- 
tion of  herself  can  be  as  surely  estimated  by  her  choice 
of  a  lover  as  a  man's  in  his  selection  of  a  wife. 

But  when  he  saw  Richard  his  views  changed.  Rich- 
ard did  her  credit.  He  need  not  be  ashamed  of  such 
a  predecessor.  He  was  a  fine  fellow — but  he  was  not 
Lord  Lashbridge. 

On  further  knowledge  of  Gwendolen,  while  his  pas- 
sion began  to  develop  rapidly,  he  understood  that 
Richard  was  a  rival  whom  it  would  be  hard,  if  not 
impossible,  to  oust. 

Piqued  in  his  pride,  he  became  desperately  in  love 
with  her. 

But  when  her  every  look,  her  every  word  told  him 
that  she  loved  another  man  it  would  be  absurd  for 
him  to  take  any  definite  line.  Yet  he  greatly  desired 
her  society.  Her  absence  became  intolerable.  He 
called  frequently  on  her,  and  stayed  long,  even  when 


196  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

they  were  not  alone.  He  noticed  that  she  took  a 
tantalising  pleasure  in  talking  about  Richard,  his 
doings,  his  sayings,  his  hopes. 

On  one  occasion  he  had  delicately  objected: 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Ainslie,  I  have  not  come  here  to  talk 
about — Richard.  I  want  to  talk  about  you." 

"It  is  the  same  thing,"  she  answered. 

Cold  came  to  his  heart: 

"He's  a  singularly  fortunate  young  man." 

"He  deserves  to  be." 

Had  she  spoken  thus  about  her  husband  he  would 
have  used  every  means  to  transfer  her  affections  to 
himself.  He  would  have  proved  himself  in  all  things 
superior  to  her  husband.  A  girl  marries,  or  has  a 
husband  thrust  upon  her,  for  a  hundred  reasons.  But 
when  a  woman,  with  her  eyes  open,  deliberately  selects 
her  lover  and  proves  to  herself  that  she  has  wisely 
chosen,  his  position  is  well-nigh  unassailable.  The 
woman's  love,  self-respect,  and  pride  are  insuperable 
barriers  against  the  intruder. 

The  unfortunate  Lashbridge,  finding  that  he  had 
met  the  love  of  his  life,  and  that  she  was  beyond  his 
reach,  felt  himself  in  a  sorry  case.  It  was  obvious 
that  she  liked  him,  and  was  fond  of  his  society.  Secure 
in  her  position,  she  saw  him  a  great  deal.  And  the 
more  he  saw  of  her  the  more  fiercely  his  hopeless  pas- 
sion burned. 

What  would  be  the  outcome?  The  wretched  Wil- 
fred could  not  live  long.  He  could  then  offer  her 
marriage.  It  couldn't  be  supposed  that  she,  a  sensible, 
ambitious  woman,  as  he  knew,  would  prefer  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  barrister  to  being  a  Marchioness.  She  might 
not  love  him — but  his  knowledge  of  himself,  and  of  his 
successful  experiences  with  women,  convinced  him  that 


LASHBRIDGE  SEES  HIS  WAY  197 

they  would  "get  on,"  that  she  would — eventually  love 
him.  Still,  Wilfred  might  live — ten  years.  There  was 
a  proverb  about  creaking  doors.  These  reflections  kept 
him  uneasily  awake,  maddened  at  moments  by  the 
thought  that  the  woman  he  loved  was  in  his  own  house 
— possibly  at  that  moment  being  kissed  by  one  of  his 
own  guests — a  most  unnecessary  man. 

Were  there  no  means  of  separating  them? 

The  barrister  was  keen  on  his  career,  horribly,  almost 
vulgarly  keen.  Why  shouldn't  Pamela  take  an  interest 
in  him.  If  it  was  true  that  his  future  was  assured, 
Richard  might  not  be  an  entirely  impossible  mesalliance 
for  the  girl — even  with  Montague  Cliftonville  as  a 
brother-in-law. 

Still,  the  scheme  did  not  seem  very  promising.  It 
did  not  appeal  to  him. 

A  well-arranged  liaison  is  much  more  permanent  than 
an  ordinary  marriage.  It  contains  a  hundred  honey- 
moons. A  marriage  contains  but  one.  Some  last,  of 
course,  for  ever;  but  these  are  few.  The  man  and 
the  woman  who  are  not  married  meet  only  for  pleasure, 
never  for  ennui.  Each  meeting  is,  in  a  sensual  sense, 
an  earnest  of  continuing  love. 

There  must,  surely,  be  some  method  of  separating 
them — if  he  could  find  it. 

Suddenly  the  idea  came — vague  and  indefinite,  but 
pregnant  with  promise — and  in  its  train  came  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  LORD  CHANCELLOR  AND  LUNCH 

AFTER  a  delightful  long  vacation,  most  of  which  had 
been .  spent  in  the  company  of  Gwendolen,  Richard 
returned  to  the  Temple.  Abundance  of  work  awaited 
him.  All  the  solicitors  who  had  previously  tested  his 
qualities  sent  him  more  briefs — briefs  of  greater  im- 
portance. Several  solicitors,  eager  to  profit  by  a  dis- 
covery made  at  the  risk  of  others,  sent  him  work. 
Moseley's  prophecies  were  in  a  fair  way  to  come  true. 
The  clerk  himself  appeared  satisfied.  He  became  a 
little  hard  to  please  in  the  matter  of  fees.  On  occasions 
when  Richard  appeared  single-handed  he  exacted  the 
remuneratidn  of  an  average  "leader." 

"My  governor  will  be  there.  I  guarantee  it.  He's 
as  good  as  so-and-so  or  such-and-such.  So  you're 
saving  the  expense  of  a  junior,"  he  would  say.  Also 
he  absolutely  declined  all  county  court  cases  with  more 
or  less  scorn.  Moseley  was,  indeed,  a  hard  taskmaster. 
He  kept  his  nominal  employer  toiling  at  fever-heat. 
His  acquaintance  with  associates  and  his  friendship 
with  police  magistrates'  clerks  enabled  him  to  fit  in  an 
enormous  amount  of  work.  Richard's  criminal  practice, 
which  he  insisted  on  continuing,  took  up  a  great  deal 
of  time,  unremuneratively,  to  the  clerk's  way  of 
thinking. 

In  order  to  keep  faithfully  to  his  guarantee  that 
Richard  should  attend  to  any  work  accepted,  many 
considerable  briefs  were  returned,  so  that  the  barrister 
could  dash  off  from  the  K.B.D.  to  the  Old  Bailey  for 


THE  LORD  CHANCELLOR  AND  LUNCH  199 

"five  and  one."  A  pure  waste  of  money,  thought  Mose- 
ley.  Richard,  however,  fascinated  by  the  human  inter- 
est of  the  Central  Criminal  Court,  was  firm. 

Late  one  afternoon,  after  a  consultation,  the  clerk 
handed  him  a  retainer  for  the  promoters  of  the  Sud- 
bury-on-Tritham  Tramways  Bill — five  guineas. 

"Moseley,  how  did  this  come  my  way?"  he  asked  in 
surprise. 

"Well,  sir,  my  first  wife's  brother  is  a  partner  in 
Nethershall  and  Milbury's,  the  Parliamentary  agents. 
We  haven't  been  exactly  on  speaking  terms — that  is  to 
say,  civil  speaking  terms — for  some  years,  partly  over 
my  late  wife's  property,  but  I  thought" — here  he  smiled 
— "that  I  should  best  be  consulting  the  interests  of 
all  parties  by  eating  humble  pie.  So  I  made  a  meal 
of  it." 

"And?" 

"In  the  course  of  conversation — afterwards,  I  men- 
tioned that  you  were  a  great  friend  of  Lord  Lash- 
bridge's,  and  that  if  Joe  Milbury  had  got  a  Bill  or 
two  in  the  Lords,  you  were  just  the  man  for  any  com- 
mittee presided  over  by  his  lordship." 

"You're  very  energetic,  John.  Unhappily,  Lord 
Lashbridge  and  I  are  not  great  friends." 

"But  you  stayed  with  him,  sir,  in  the  vacation! 
That's  what  gave  me  the  idea." 

"I  don't  think  he  would  go  out  of  his  way  one  hair's 
breadth  to  do  me  a  good  turn.  He  would  go  a  long 
way  to  do  me  a  bad  one." 

Moseley's  quick  intelligence  found  the  word  "woman." 
His  eyebrows  met  in  a  frown  of  irritation. 

"Anyhow,  sir,  we've  got  the  retainer.  There  will  be 
a  hundred  guineas  on  your  brief.  Mr.  Gregg  will  lead 
vou." 


200  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"It's  an  excellent  thing  to  get  a  footing  at  the 
Parliamentary  Bar,"  said  Richard  reflectively. 

"Yes,  sir.  It  makes  up  for  some  of  the  time  we  lose 
at  the  Old  Bailey." 

Apart  from  the  enormous  fees  earned  in  the  commit- 
tee rooms,  Moseley  felt  that  if  Richard  could  secure 
any  sort  of  practice  there  he  would  be  compelled  to 
abandon  the  Central  Criminal  Court. 

The  distance  between  it  and  Westminster  was  too 
great  for  convenience,  if  not  for  practicability.  Be- 
sides, precedent  was  against  it.  He  knew  of  no  case 
of  a  man  who  had  attempted  to  appear  regularly  before 
both  tribunals. 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Richard. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  your  brother  is 
here.  Can  you  see  him?" 

"You've  kept  him  waiting  all  this  time !" 

Not  only  had  he  kept  him  waiting,  but,  having  little 
regard  either  for  him  or  his  calling,  he  had  enjoyed 
doing  so. 

The  actor  appeared,  ruffled  in  humour.  His  eyes 
instantly  detected  the  absence  of  the  Bad-Schwerin 
photograph. 

Petulantly  he  inquired: 

"What  have  you  done  with  that  picture  of  me?" 

"Ego  et  meus  Rex?" 

"Don't  be  absurd." 

"This  is  too  humble  a  room  for  such  a  work.  The 
National  Portrait  Gallery  is  the  proper  place." 

"I've  come  here  to  talk  sense,"  the  mime  snapped, 
throwing  himself  irritably  into  a  chair.  "A  most 
annoying  thing  has  happened." 

He  then  recounted  the  episode  of  the  poem  in  the 
Phoenix.  In  its  development  lay  the  cause  of  sorrow. 


THE  LORD  CHANCELLOR  AND  LUNCH  201 

It  appeared  that  the  editor,  instead  of  publishing 
instantly  a  supplement  dealing  with  Montague,  had 
already  published  three,  each  dealing  with  another 
actor.  When  would  Montague  appear?  Herein  lay 
further  pain.  These  three  other  actors  were,  to  his 
thinking,  candidates  for  the  honour  of  knighthood. 

"Now  when  I,"  he  wound  up,  "wrote  to  this  con- 
founded editor,  a  pretty  stiff  letter,  I  can  tell  you,  he 
replied  that  he  was  dealing  with  the  actors  in  order 
of  merit.  And  I  don't  know  whether  I  come  even  fourth 
or  not!"  Indignation  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"But,"  answered  Richard,  "it  is  no  mean  thing  to 
be  the  fourth  greatest  man  in  one's  profession — even 
if  he  is  so  only  in  the  eyes  of  a  single  man.  The  editor 
of  the  Phoenix  is  only  a  single  member  of  the  public, 
though,  no  doubt,  a  most  important  member." 

"But  everybody  sees  his  paper." 

"I  never  see  it." 

"All  fashionable  people  see  it." 

"I  understand." 

"Surely,"  persisted  Montague,  "it's  libellous  to  say 
that  these  three  fellows  are  greater  actors  than  myself?" 

"But  he  doesn't  say  so  in  his  paper.  He  only  writes 
and  tells  you  so." 

"But  the  inference !" 

"Is  it  a  libel  on  Rufus  Isaacs  if  a  paper  published  a 
picture  of  Sir  Edward  Carson  to-day,  and  of  him  to- 
morrow?" 

"Oh,  lawyers  are  different,"  Montague  replied. 

"No,  they're  not,"  answered  Richard  gravely.  "It's 
the  actors  who  are  different.  They  are  different  from 
any  other  class  of  men  in  the  world.  I  suppose  it's 
the  constant  painting  of  your  faces  that  makes  you 
so  infernally  thin-skinned." 


202  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

The  actor  thought  for  a  second. 

"That's  very  good,"  he  commented  reflectively.  "I 
know  a  man  to  whom  that  applies — I  shall  say  that 
about  him."  Then,  returning  to  the  subject  in  hand: 
"What  had  I  better  do?" 

"Nothing.  Put  up  better  plays,  old  chap.  And 
come  to  lunch  on  Sunday." 

"Not  in  Gloucester  Terrace?" 

"Have  no  fear.  The  Carlton.  One  of  Shurin's 
tables,  right  in  the  middle." 

"Who's  coming?" 

"No  crowned  heads.  Only  Lady  Pamela  1'Estocq  and 
Mrs.  Ainslie." 

"Lady  Pamela  1'Estocq — isn't  she  Lashbridge's 
daughter?" 

"Yes." 

"He's  a  poor  weed.  I  can't  believe  he  was  ever  really 
good-looking." 

"The  daughter  admires  you  vastly.  She's  made  a 
corner  in  picture  postcards  of  you." 

"Half-past-one  at  the  Carlton  will  suit  me  ad- 
mirably." 

"Good." 

The  mention  of  picture  postcards  recalled  to  his 
mind  the  Bad-Schwerin  photograph.  As  Richard 
didn't  seem  to  want  it,  he  might  have  let  him  have  it 
back. 

"Certainly.  An  accident  has  happened  to  the  frame. 
But  I  believe  the  work  itself  is  intact." 

"I  think  of  presenting  it  to  the  Playgoers'  Club." 

"They  will,  no  doubt,  be  hugely  pleased.  I'm  walk- 
ing westwards.  Are  you  coming?" 

"My  motor's  waiting." 

"You've  got  a  motor?"  Richard  asked  in  surprise. 


THE  LORD  CHANCELLOR  AND  LUNCH  203 

"But    your   theatre    hasn't   been    doing   well    lately." 

An  uneasy  look  absorbed  Montague's  eyes,  his  stick, 
held  at  right  angles,  patted  his  brow. 

"I  get  my  salary." 

Solemnly  Richard  replied: 

"A  solicitor  with  a  prayer-book  is  always  to  be  mis- 
trusted. He  is  on  his  way  to  gaol.  An  actor  with 
a  motor-car  generally  motors  to  the  Bankruptcy 
Court." 

For  a  second,  Montague  seemed  on  the  point  of  an 
explanation.  He  changed  his  mind. 

"I  don't  like  pessimists,"  he  answered  as  ne  turned 
to  the  door;  "pessimism  is  the  consolation  cup 
that —  But  the  epigram  refused  to  come.  "No, 

I'm  not  in  the  vein  to-day — I'm  not  in  the  vein." 

Wearily  stroking  his  forehead,  he  went  out  of  the 
room. 

"Something  is  going  wrong  with  Montie,"  reflected 
Richard.  "Poor  old  chap.  The  motor  scheme  is  all 
wrong.  I  wonder  if  he's  saved  any  money." 

Rarely  had  Montague  enjoyed  himself  so  much  as 
at  the  lunch  on  Sunday.  The  conversation  of  the  parti 
car  re  consisted  of  two  distinct  duologues.  Lady 
Pamela  sat  with  eyes  of  admiration  while  the  actor 
discoursed  on  his  favourite  topic.  He  could  not  say 
too  much  about  himself.  Pamela,  in  a  girl's  seventh 
heaven,  the  gratification  of  curiosity,  plied  him  with 
questions.  When  another  actor's  name  was  mentioned, 
he  praised  him  benevolently.  This  one  was  the  best 
actor  on  the  stage — except,  of  course,  in  costume  plays. 
Now  this  actor  appeared  in  no  others.  A  second  actor 
was  the  most  "gentlemanly"  actor  on  the  stage.  It 
happened  that  the  second  actor  had  originally  been  an 
assistant  in  a  furniture  warehouse.  He  was  even  now 


204  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

no  more  like  a  gentleman  than  an  auctioneer.  Several 
actors,  he  went  so  far  as  to  say,  would  make  ideal 
Hamlets.  He  was  always  in  favour  of  actors  playing 
the  Prince,  because  he  knew — from  his  own  experience 
— that  the  public  was  firmly  anti-Hamlet,  and  financial 
disaster  invariably  resulted  from  that  play's  produc- 
tion. The  phonograph,  he  maintained,  in  moments  of 
expansion,  to  non-theatrical  listeners,  had  killed 
Hamlet. 

Suddenly  he  inquired  of  Gwendolen : 

"Who's  that  stout  old  lady  who's  looking  at  me 
over  there?  You  just  nodded  to  her." 

"Oh,  that's  Mrs.  Trout,  a  great  American  society 
woman." 

"Do  tell  me,  Gwen,  what  you  think  of  her — what  you 
think  of  her  really?"  asked  Pamela. 

Gwendolen  pursed  her  lips:  "I  think  she's — lady- 
like." 

"Ladylike!"  exclaimed  Richard,  aghast  at  the  use 
of  this  unusable  word. 

A  fault  in  the  faultless  amounts  to  a  crime,  just  as 
any  merit  in  a  criminal  becomes  a  virtue. 

"When  I  say  ladylike,  I  mean  that  she's  something — 
just  a  little — like  a  lady." 

"Good,"  laughed  Pamela,  "you've  added  a  word  to 
the  language.  It  does  describe  her,"  she  added,  look- 
ing at  the  somewhat  blatant  American.  "Oh,  there's 
my  father.  He  told  me  he'd  be  here.  He  is  in  very 
serious  company,  for  him.  That's  the  Chancellor,  isn't 
it?  And  Sir  James  Tufnell.  Lord  Croxpeth  doesn't 
quite  save  the  situation.  A  curious  lunch  for  my  father 
to  be  giving!" 

"That's  where  you  ought  to  be,  Richard,"  Gwen- 
dolen said  chaffingly.  "You  ought  to  be  talking  law 


THE  LORD  CHANCELLOR  AND  LUNCH  205 

to   the   Lord   Chancellor   instead   of   nonsense   to   us." 

"I  am  glad  I  know  you  well  enough  to  talk  nonsense 
to  you,"  he  said  laughing ;  "very  few  people  know  you 
well  enough  for  that.  But  there  are  several  men  in 
the  Temple  who  devote  their  lives  to  incubating  non- 
sense for  the  Lord  Chancellor's  ears." 

"It's  a  mistake,"  interposed  Montague,  with  the  air 
of  a  deep  thinker  making  a  statement  that  should  be 
remembered  and  handed  down  to  one's  children's  chil- 
dren, "that  they  have  music  at  lunch  here,  a  band  at 
a  meal  is  a  skeleton  at  a  banquet." 

Gwendolen  threw  light  on  the  origin  of  the  orchestra 
in  English  hotels. 

"It  was  introduced  to  prevent  us  from  hearing  the 
Germans  eat,"  she  mentioned.  "With  them  mastication 
is  a  form  of  music.  I  remember  some  years  ago  I  was 
dining  too  near  the  band  at  the  Savoy,  and  a  big 
German,  a  very  unsuccessful  feeder,  was  quite  indig- 
nant. 'Himmel!'  he  exclaimed,  'wid  all  zis  noise  I  can- 
not hear  meinself  eat !' — or  he  ought  to  have." 

Strangely  enough,  Richard  was  the  topic  of  conver- 
sation at  the  other  table — a  conversation  in  which 
Croxpeth  took  no  manner  of  interest. 

It  had  come  about  in  this  way.  The  morality  of 
the  Bar  had  been  discussed.  Lashbridge  had  stated 
that,  although  barristers  never  seemed  to  make  their 
own  wills,  they  always  seemed  to  be  able  to  keep  out 
of  the  divorce  court — "and  yet,"  he  added,  "barristers 
generally  have  such  alarmingly  ugly  wives." 

"We  generally  marry  when  we're  very  young," 
explained  Tufnell;  "before  we  have  any  value  in  the 
marriage  market.  Therefore,  we  do  not  get  the  pick 
of  the  bunch.  Again,  the  barristers  who  don't  marry 
young  lead  a  rather  gay  life.  When  they've  sown  as 


206  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

many  wild  oats  as  they  decently  can,  they  retire  from 
agriculture  and  become  tame  husbands.  Do  they, 
Tremayne,  or  do  they  not?  They're  fools  if  they 
don't." 

The  Chancellor,  thus  negatively  appealed  to,  nodded 
assent.  White-haired,  heavy,  strongly  built,  with  a 
very  aquiline  nose,  clear-cut,  clean-shaven  features, 
feathery  eyebrows  over  piercing  grey  eyes,  he  was  a 
fine  figure  of  a  man,  an  ideal  figure  of  a  Chancellor, 
infinitely  more  like  Thomas  a  Becket  than  Thomas 
a  Becket  ever  could  have  been.  The  sternness  of  his 
countenance  indicated  the  sternness  of  his  morals.  He 
had  never  given  a  man  an  appointment  simply  because 
the  man  was  eminently  unfitted  for  the  post. 

"Yet,"  pursued  Lashbridge,  "barristers  are  men. 
How  is  it,  Lord  Tremayne,  that  we  never  have  any 
scandals  in  which  they  are  involved?  K.C.'s,  for 
instance,  never  seem  to  get  into  trouble." 

"It  would  mean  death  to  them  if  they  did,"  explained 
the  Chancellor,  whose  voice  was  somewhat  gruff,  his 
delivery  slow  and  ponderous.  "If  a  King's  Counsel 
were  mixed  up  in  any  scandal,  his  practice  would  imme- 
diately cease." 

"I  see.  Now  what's  the  procedure?  If  a  man  wants 
to  become  a  K.C.  he  writes  to  you,  doesn't  he?" 

"That  is  so :  and  to  his  seniors  on  his  circuit,  notify- 
ing them  of  his  intention." 

"Well,  then,  if  you  know  anything  against  the  man's 
character,  do  you  refuse  to  give  him  silk,  as  you 
call  it?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  Chancellor ;  "if  I  know  any- 
thing definite,  anything  serious  against  a  man's  charac- 
ter, I  should  think  him  unworthy  to  be  a  King's 
Counsel.  I  should  refuse  to  give  him  silk." 


THE  LORD  CHANCELLOR  AND  LUNCH  207 

"Take  a  case,"  insisted  Lashbridge,  who  seemed 
intensely  interested  in  the  matter.  "Suppose  that  a 
barrister  were  living  with  another  man's  wife,  would 
you  give  him  silk?" 

"I  should  refuse  it.  I  do  not  desire  to  see  news- 
paper placards  headed  'K.C.  in  the  Divorce  Court.' 
Such  a  thing  would  bring  great  discredit  on  the  pro- 
fession." 

"And  your  refusal  would  practically  ruin  him!" 

"It  would  prevent  him  rising  to  any  sort  of  eminence 
at  the  Bar." 

Lord  Tremayne's  strong  yellow  teeth  snapped  with 
decision. 

Lashbridge  turned  to  Sir  James,  a  note  of  sympathy 
in  his  voice: 

"That's  hard  lines  on  our  friend  Meyville." 

The  Judge  shot  an  angry  glance  in  reply. 

Interested,  Tremayne  leaned  forward. 

"Do  you  mean  Richard  Meyville?  Is  there  anything 
of  that  sort  against  him?" 

"Something  very  beautiful  of  that  sort,"  Lash- 
bridge answered.  "She  is  sitting  over  there  with 
him.  You  see  four  people  at  that  table — a  waiter 
like  a  Roman  emperor  is  attending  to  them.  That's 
the  woman,  the  handsome  woman  with  the  black 
hair." 

"But  which  of  the  men  is  he?  I've  heard  a  great 
deal  about  him — a  brilliant  young  man,  they  tell  me. 
But  I've  never  seen  him.  Obviously,  the  younger  one. 
A  fine  legal  face,"  commented  the  Chancellor,  adjust- 
ing his  glasses.  "By  Jove,  they're  a  handsome 
couple." 

"And  a  happy  couple." 

"What  a  pity !" 


208  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"The  other  man,"  said  Lashbridge,  "is  his  brother, 
Cliftonville,  the  actor." 

"I  see."     Again  his  teeth  snapped. 

Lashbridge,  throwing  a  reassuring  glance  at  Sir 
James,  defended  Richard. 

"I  cannot  seriously  believe  that  you  would  stop  a 
man  midway  in  his  career  because  he  loves  a  woman 
who  isn't  his  wife.  We  have  paid  high  enough  prices 
before  now  owing  to  our  belief  that  morality  is  more 
important  than  mind.  In  my  own  day  England  has 
lost  three  great  men  through  this  creed.  She  has 
within  the  last  twenty  years  sacrificed  two  great  poli- 
ticians and  one  great  poet  on  an  altar  which  she  herself 
does  not  believe  to  exist." 

Tremayne  returned  definitely  to  the  point. 

"Does  this  woman  live  with  her  husband?" 

"She  lives  in  her  husband's  house." 

"Then,"  said  the  Chancellor  with  deliberation,  "the 
man  is  a  common  thief." 

Clearly,  he  had  not  yet  forgotten  what  was  nearly 
a  tragedy  in  his  own  career.  He  still  remembered  Vin- 
cent Skene's  affair  with  his  wife,  and  a  sinister  and 
tragic  day  at  the  Old  Bailey.1 

"Nonsense,"  interposed  the  Judge.  "I  don't  agree 
with  either  of  you.  Am  I  a  fool  or  am  I  not?  Don't 
think  of  it.  Morals  have  nothing  to  do  with  integrity. 
But  a  man  who  cannot  conduct  his  own  affairs  without 
getting  into  trouble  is  not  the  man  to  look  after  a 
client's  affairs  or  the  affairs  of  the  nation.  This  young 
fellow  has  a  great  public  future  before  him.  You  can 
rely  on  him  to  look  after  his  private  life." 

Lashbridge  gazed  intently  at  the  Judge  as  he  spoke. 

1  See  "The  King's  Counsel." 


THE  LORD  CHANCELLOR  AND  LUNCH  209 

The  Chancellor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  seemed 
to  have  decided  the  case.  Out  of  courtesy,  however, 
he  asked  apparently  with  interest: 

"Has  he  ever  appeared  before  you,  Jimmie?" 

"Yes ;  he's  a  first-rate  lawyer,  an  excellent  speaker, 
and" — here  was  the  crowning  glory — "very  respectful 
to  the  Bench." 

"Well,  I  hope  he'll  give  this  woman  up." 

"He  won't !"  cried  the  Judge,  banging  his  hand  on 
the  table.  "Is  he  a  damned  scoundrel  or  is  he  not? 
I'm  damned  if  he  is." 

"Will  she  give  him  up?" 

"Never,"  said  Lashbridge.  "That's  where  she  differs 
from  an  ordinary  English  woman.  She  is,  in  some 
ways,  almost  French.  A  French  woman,  as  a  rule,  has 
one  lover  and  sticks  to  him.  An  English  woman  is  a 
collector." 

"Then,  Jimmie,  when  he  sends  in  his  application — if 
he  does — which  he  must,  I  should  say,  fairly  soon — I 
shall  refuse  it.  And  you,  as  you  take  so  much  interest 
in  the  young  man,  had  better  give  him  a  hint.  Then 
if  he  behaves — properly,  he  can  apply  again." 

He  rose. 

As  the  men  were  walking  through  the  Palm  Court, 
Sir  James  grimly  said  to  Lashbridge: 

"You  were  indiscreet." 

Lashbridge,  burning,  affected  humility. 

"I'm  frightfully  sorry.  I  had  no  idea  how  strict  the 
rules  of  your  Trades  Union  are.  I  had  no  idea  that 
the  Lord  Chancellor  was  a  great  moral  force.  I  hope 
I  haven't  done  young  Meyville  any  harm." 

"I'm  afraid  you  have — very  grievous  harm." 

"It's  a  terrible  thing  to  have  done  your  young  friend 
an  unconscious  injury." 


210  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"It  is.  Can  there  be  two  opinions  about  it?  There 
cannot." 

"Don't  say  a  word  about  it  to  him.  I  must  explain 
the  matter  myself." 

"Possibly  you  will  be  able  to  do  it  more  easily 
than  I.  No,  you  cannot  drop  me  anywhere,  thank  you. 
He  is  getting  into  Mrs.  Ainslie's  motor  while  Tremayne 
is  looking  on.  You've  done  him  a  most  serious  injury." 

It  was  precisely  with  that  object  that  Lashbridge 
had  arranged  this  pleasant  little  lunch. 


CHAPTER  XX 

"SHE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEAD" 

FOE  half-past  four  on  the  following  Thursday  a 
consultation  had  been  fixed  in  the  Sudbury-on-Tritham 
Electric  Tramways  Bill  at  the  chambers  of  Mr.  Gregg 
in  Parliament  Street. 

At  a  quarter  to  five  Richard  dashed  up  in  a  han- 
som. Snatching  a  huge  batch  of  papers  from  his  junior 
clerk,  who  was  waiting,  he  entered  the  august  presence 
of  the  eminent  K.C. 

Stout,  puffy  and  pompous,  with  a  face  like  a  bull- 
frog, skin  of  an  apoplectic  texture,  large,  aggressive 
eyes  glaring  under  wrinkled  eyelids  through  glittering 
gold  spectacles,  he  sat  with  his  back  to  the  light  at 
the  end  of  a  long  table  covered  with  papers,  massive 
remunerative  documents.  In  the  dismal,  dirty  room, 
furnished  mainly  with  statutes  and  reports  and  blue- 
books,  there  was  no  attempt  at  decoration.  On  the 
dull  green  distempered  walls  hung  two  or  three  dis- 
coloured maps,  the  sole  sacrifice  to  art  in  the  place. 
Some  maps  are  less  interesting  than  others.  Some  are, 
at  any  rate,  suggestive  of  blue  skies  and  limpid  air  and 
sun-kissed  palms.  These  maps  only  suggested  drabness 
and  gloom.  They  might  have  been  maps  of — Wal- 
thamstow  Without  or  Ponder's  End.  On  each  side  of 
the  table  were  seated  promoters,  solicitors,  engineers, 
expert  witnesses,  and  others,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the 
man  at  the  end. 

Richard  had  never  seen  him  before,  though  he,  of 
course,  knew  him  by  reputation.  His  reputation  con- 


212  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

sisted  merely  in  the  fact  that  he  made  £30,000  a  year 
at  the  Parliamentary  Bar. 

At  first  glance  the  bloated  appearance  of  this  sexa- 
genarian was  a  blow  to  Richard.  The  K.C.  looked 
more  like  a  beadle  than  anything  else. 

Richard  walked  towards  him  and  placed  his  papers 
on  the  table. 

Mr.  Gregg  stared  at  him.  He  did  not  offer  his 
hand.  Mr.  Gregg's  stare  was,  in  very  truth,  the  secret 
of  his  huge  success.  It  had  made  him  Standing  Coun- 
sel to  half  our  railway  companies,  many  of  our  wealthi- 
est corporations,  and  the  ideal  advocate  of  the  pro- 
moters of  piers,  tramways,  docks,  &c.  The  glare  had 
earned  him  the  invaluable  reputation  of  never  deceiving 
a  Committee.  Therefore,  all  promoters  of  possibly 
possible  schemes  desired  his  assistance.  True,  his 
respect  for  his  own  reputation  prevented  him  from 
actually  appearing  in  the  committee  rooms  in  a  promi- 
nent manner  on  their  behalf.  But  he  would  drop  in 
to  examine  an  influential  witness  He  would  aggres- 
sively cross-examine  at  great  length  a  witness  of  no 
possible  importance. 

In  cases  which  he  actually  fought  he  gave  the  glare 
full  play.  Electrical  or  mechanical  engineers,  friends 
of  his  own,  hearty  diners  at  his  home,  blurted  out  incon- 
venient truths  when  suddenly  confronted  by  the  glare. 
He  would  turn  it  on  learned  brothers  who  made  valid, 
objections  to  such  and  such  proceedings.  The  glare 
destroyed  the  vitality  of  the  objections.  Even  on 
chairmen  of  the  Committee  would  he  turn  the  glare. 
Instantly  they  saw  the  error  of  their  ways.  Unhap- 
pily, the  nature  of  the  glare  is  indescribable,  as  the 
glare  itself  is  inimitable.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  horror 
of  superhuman  intelligence  at  incredible  ignorance. 


"SHE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEAD"  213 

Also,  as  has  been  stated,  it  was  worth  £30,000  a 
year. 

When  Richard  said: 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Mr.  Gregg,  but  I  was  detained  at 
the  Old  Bailey,"  he  received  the  glare  in  its  most  acute 
form. 

The  effect  on  him  was  curious.  He  had  just  won 
an  unexpected  acquittal  in  a  charge  against  a  curate, 
and  he  felt  in  high  humour  with  himself.  The  glare 
struck  him — it  must  be  said — as  comic! 

He  smiled. 

But,  of  course,  only  slightly. 

"Where?"  The  voice  of  the  fat  man  was  shrill,  a 
voice  entirely  out  of  harmony  with  his  architecture,  out 
of  all  harmony  with  the  glare. 

The  smile  broadened.  "The  Old  Bailey — in  Lon- 
don." 

The  glare  ricochetted,  and  Mr.  Gregg,  aghast,  sank 
back  into  his  chair. 

The  promoters,  the  solicitors,  the  various  experts 
were  nervous  at  the  tension. 

Then  Richard  sat  down  in  the  chair  on  his  leader's 
right. 

Mr.  Gregg's  frame  heaved  with  ill-suppressed  indig- 
nation. This  was  the  first  time  in  all  his  experience 
that  the  glare  had  failed. 

At  length  he  spoke,  panting: 

"That's  all,  I  think,  gentlemen?" 

Obviously  Richard  was  not  included  in  the  question. 

In  a  courteous  but  unconcerned  voice  he  addressed 
Gregg: 

"There  are  one  or  two  points — " 

"We've  been  into  them — before  you  came,"  frowned 
the  great  K.C. 


214  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"I'm  very  sorry,  but — " 

Utterly  ignoring  him,  the  other  turned  to  a  genial 
old  gentleman,  six  feet  high  and  massively  handsome, 
a  leading  expert  in  tramways: 

"A  word  with  you,  Mr.  Hodgkins." 

This  was  the  signal  to  terminate  the  consultation. 

Richard,  as  the  others  filed  out  of  the  room,  felt 
that  it  would  be  useless  for  him  to  remain  behind.  Mr. 
Milbury,  however,  an  energetic  and  bustling  little  man, 
prematurely  middle-aged,  with  a  round  face,  turned- 
down  collar,  red  tie,  and  fluttering  coat-tails,  intruded 
himself  on  Mr.  Gregg.  He  did  not  like  the  manner  in 
which  the  leader  had  treated  Richard.  He  foresaw 
trouble,  and  he  blamed  himself.  For  he  recognised 
that  he  had  not  asked  him  what  junior  he  would  prefer. 
Already  he  regretted  that  Meyville  had  been  briefed. 
Mr.  Gregg  might  easily  have  revenge  for  a  slight  by 
not  attending  at  all  to  the  Sudbury-on-Tritham  Elec- 
tric Tramway  Bill.  For  a  great  man,  Mr.  Gregg 
was  singularly  liable  to  be  discomposed  by  small 
things. 

"At  eleven  to-morrow,  Mr.  Gregg,  eh?" 

The  glare  came  into  operation. 

"Of  course." 

"Lord  Lashbridge  is  the  chairman." 

"I— know." 

Then  Mr.  Milbury  retreated. 

On  Richard's  return  to  the  Temple,  somewhat  mysti- 
fied by  the  first  meeting  with  a  Parliamentary  lawyer, 
Moseley  produced  a  barrister's  bag  made  of  some  silky 
red  fabric,  with  "R.  M."  embroidered  on  it  in  white. 

"Mr.  Charles  Gault  has  sent  you  this,  sir." 

Richard  expressed  delight.  Charlie  Gault  was  one 
of  the  most  popular  men  at  the  Bar.  It  pleased  him 


"SHE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEAD"  215 

very  much  that  the  gift  should  have  come  from  that 
genial  K.  C. 

"You  ought  to  have  had  a  red  bag  long  ago,  sir. 
Still,  perhaps  it  looked  more  unobtrusive  to  use  a  blue 
one  when  you  were  so  obviously  entitled  to  the  other. 
Anyhow,  it's  just  in  time." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"You  know,  sir,  that  you  aren't  allowed  to  take  a 
blue  bag  into  the  Committee  Rooms."  A  little  uneasily 
he  asked,  "Have  you  never  been  into  a  Committee 
Room,  sir?" 

"Never." 

"If  I  had  known  that,  I  should  have  advised  you  to 
go  down  and  take  a  look  round.  However,"  he  added, 
with  every  confidence  in  Richard,  "you'll  pick  it  up 
easily  enough,  sir.  The  procedure  is  simple  enough. 
More  like  a  drawing-room  than  anything  else." 

Richard  thought  that  Gregg's  manner  would  be 
somewhat  more  out  of  place  in  a  drawing-room  than 
anywhere  else. 

Then  the  clerk  obtained  permission  to  give  Mr. 
Gault's  clerk  the  usual  receipt  of  a  guinea  on  the  pre- 
sentation of  a  red  bag,  and  retired. 

The  telephone  bell  rang. 

"Is  that  you,  Dick?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"All  right  about  Saturday?" 

A  smile  came  into  his  face. 

"Yes,   darling." 

"Nothing  can   possibly  interfere?" 

"Nothing." 

"I  am  still  your  favourite  person?" 

"First  favourite.     The  rest,  non-starters." 

"Something's  worrying  you." 


216  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"How  the  dickens  can  you  tell?" 

"By  my  darling's  voice." 

"You  know  me  too  well!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Nothing  much.  But  I'm  appearing  in  the  Lords 
to-morrow  for  the  first  time.  And  I'm  not  sure  of 
myself." 

"Is  my  love  in  a  blue  funk?" 

"No,"  he  laughed,  "but  a  little  nervous.  Lashbridge 
is  the  chairman." 

"He'll  help  you." 

"I'm  hanged  if  he  shall!" 

"Anyhow,  you'll  be  all  right.  And  you'll  tell  me  all 
about  it  on  Saturday.  I'm  only  just  living  till  then." 

"Same  here.     Good-bye,  darling." 

The  next  morning  Richard,  walking  across  the  Park 
on  his  way  to  Westminster,  caught  sight  of  Gwendolen 
riding  by  the  baby-walk.  He  waved  to  her,  and  she 
came  up  to  the  railings  for  a  chat.  On  a  handsome 
bay  hack,  and  wearing  a  perfectly  cut  grey  habit,  she 
looked,  perhaps,  at  her  best.  The  graceful  lines  of 
her  figure  were  in  marked  contrast  to  the  heavy  limp- 
ness or  too  sharp  outlines  of  the  other  women.  She 
beamed  with  happiness  and  was  anxious  to  talk.  But 
he  was  in  a  hurry.  So,  having  received  a  few  words 
of  encouragement  as  to  the  Lords,  and  certain  instruc- 
tions as  to  Saturday,  he  crossed  the  Row  in  high 
spirits.  What  did  the  Lords  matter  when  he  was 
loved  with  such  a  love  by  such  a  woman? 

He  turned  admiring  eyes  to  follow  her.  Fred 
Robinson,  an  obscure  novelist,  with  a  figure  like  a  note 
of  interrogation,  in  a  white  bowler,  and  riding  a  light 
chestnut,  joined  her.  He  toyed  with  an  imaginary 
whisker,  and  she  laughed  encouragingly. 


"SHE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEAD"  217 

"Good  Heavens!"  thought  Richard,  "she's  the  best- 
natured  woman  in  the  world — to  stand  a  man  like — 
that." 

Moscley  met  Richard  in  the  lobby  of  the  House  of 
Commons  and  preceded  him  down  a  narrow,  iron- 
balustraded  staircase  into  the  barristers'  robing-room, 
a  sort  of  cellar,  looking  out  on  to  a  courtyard.  Here 
several  counsel,  leaders  and  juniors,  all  strangers  to 
Richard,  were  being  robed  by  their  clerks  while  talking 
familiarly  to  one  another.  He  could  hear  whispers, 
not  altogether  friendly,  of  "Who's  that?"  So  far  as 
he  could  gather,  the  question  could  not  be  satisfactorily 
answered.  The  atmosphere  seemed  hostile.  And,  in- 
deed, it  was.  The  Parliamentary  Bar  is  a  close  cor- 
poration, to  which  admission  should  be  obtained  in  the 
orthodox  way — one  should  be  the  pupil  of  a  Parliamen- 
tary counsel,  or  the  son  of  a  Parliamentary  agent,  or 
the  near  relative  of  a  peer.  One  should  certainly  not 
be  an  Old  Bailey  barrister.  None  of  these  men  knew 
that  Richard  had  ever  appeared  at  the  Old  Bailey, 
or,  indeed,  that  he  was  Richard  Meyville.  But  they 
saw  that  he  was  a  stranger,  and  they  felt  that  they 
did  not  need  him  among  the  flesh-pots.  The  richer 
the  flesh-pots,  the  more  zealously  must  they  be  guarded. 

Richard  found  himself  in  a  large,  airy  room  with 
windows  overlooking  the  Thames.  In  front  of  him,  at 
a  horseshoe  table,  sat  the  committee,  with  Lashbridge 
in  the  centre.  On  the  wall  facing  the  windows  was  a 
huge  map  of  Sudbury-on-Tritham. 

On  his  right-hand  side  were  the  score  or  so  of  coun- 
sel employed  in  the  case.  They  appeared  for  the  bor- 
ough council,  the  local  county  council,  all  sorts  of 
councils,  railway  companies,  frontages,  and  private 
owners.  Many  were  there  simply  to  say  that  they  did 


218  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

not  propose  to  offer  any  opposition.  Some  were  pre- 
pared to  settle  on  terms.  At  the  long  table,  littered 
with  red  bags,  documents,  and  plans,  they  were  sitting 
in  uncomfortable  confusion,  in  places,  two  or  three 
deep. 

Richard's  brand  new  bag  amongst  the  old  and  dingy 
ones  made  a  scarlet  note  of  colour,  not  at  all  pleasing 
to  him.  Its  newness  looked  terribly  amateurish. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Godalming,  the  solicitor  for  the  pro- 
moters, a  good-looking,  middle-aged  man  with  an  eye- 
glass, tapped  him  on  the  back : 

"Mr.  Gregg's  clerk  has  just  told  me  that  he  can't 
get  away  from  a  committee  of  the  Commons.  You'll 
have  to  open." 

"Very  well,"  said  Richard.  But  a  cold  shudder 
ran  down  his  back.  He  had  never  expected  to  make  the 
opening  speech,  though,  of  course,  he  had  prepared 
notes.  He  would  have  given  anything  to  have,  once 
in  his  life,  heard  somebody  perform  the  task.  A  prece- 
dent would  have  helped  him  vastly.  As  things  were, 
he  was  like  a  bridegroom  who,  at  the .  altar  rails,  is 
suddenly  called  upon  to  perform  the  ceremony. 

"Why  didn't  that  infernal  old  Gregg  come?"  he 
asked  himself. 

Why?  For  these  reasons.  During  the  last  two 
years  he  had  noticed  that  his  powers,  except  those  of 
over-eating,  were  on  the  wane.  He  had,  therefore, 
abandoned,  as  far  as  possible,  the  most  difficult  parts 
of  the  Bills  for  which  he  was  retained.  He  preferred 
to  examine  certain  unimportant  witnesses  at  great 
length,  or  to  cross-examine  witnesses  who  were  un- 
familiar with  Committees,  if  his  case  was  a  poor  one. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  its  preamble  was  likely  to  be 
proved,  he  would  devote  a  good  deal  of  his  attention 


"SHE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEAD"  219 

to  it.  But  the  preamble  of  the  Sudbury-on-Tritham 
Electric  Tramways  Bill  stood  little  chance  of  passing 
the  Lords.  Further,  its  promoters  were  not  overbur- 
dened with  money.  They  had,  indeed,  only  employed 
two  counsel,  and  they  had  not  consulted  him  as  to  his 
junior.  They  had  chosen  an  Old  Bailey  barrister! 
Pshaw !  He  was  well  out  of  it.  It  was  much  better 
for  him  to  sit  in  a  Committee  of  the  Commons  listening 
to  Mr.  Balfour  Browne. 

Richard  rose  and  began  his  speech  to  interested 
silence.  All  the  counsel  by  now  knew  who  he  was.  He 
was  the  man  who  defended  the  Yoghi — the  worst  type 
of  Yoghi.  Were  there  ndt  plenty  of  good  men  at  the 
Parliamentary  Bar  who  could  be  employed  without 
going  to  the  Central  Criminal  Court  to  get  hold  of 
defenders  of  Yoghis?  He  was  a  good-looking,  clever- 
looking  man.  If  he  succeeded  with  the  Bill — and  old 
Gregg  had  been  foolish  enough  to  give  him  the  chance 
— he  might  come  permanently  to  Westminster.  That 
would  take  bread  out  of  somebody's  mouth — possibly 
mine — so  each  argued. 

Obviously,  he  was  nervous.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  felt  himself  nervous.  The  fact  alarmed  him. 
He  almost  regarded  it  as  a  symptom  of  disease.  Some- 
times the  word  would  not  come.  Sometimes  he  got 
entangled  in  a  phrase.  Perspiration  came  to  his  brow. 
He  was  making  a  desperately  bad  show — and  before 
Lashbridge.  Suddenly  some  one  rose  to  object — he 
mentioned  something  about  Standing  Orders.  Now 
Richard  knew  no  more  about  the  Standing  Orders  of 
the  House  of  Lords  than  he  knew  about  Cyclopaean 
architecture  in  Polynesia. 

Evidently  the  other  man  expected  a  reply.  Richard 
had  none  to  give  him.  There  was  silence.  Then  Lash- 


220  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

bridge  explained  the  matter,  adding,  "Perhaps  Mr. 
Meyville  is  not  very  familiar  with  the  procedure  of 
the  committees — at  present,"  he  added,  with  a  kindly 
smile  that  sent  the  blood  hotly  through  the  barrister's 
veins. 

Richard,  apparently,  could  say  nothing  right  or  in 
the  right  way.  He  was  as  one  attempting  to  play 
cricket  by  the  rules  of  football.  At  almost  every  sen- 
tence came  interruption  or  objection.  Lashbridge — 
though  a  smile,  half  concealed  behind  his  hand,  and 
very  galling  to  the  embarrassed  counsel,  played  about 
his  lips — evidently  did  his  best  to  help.  But  the  per- 
formance was  absolutely  humiliating. 

Help,  however,  came  from  Lord  Robert  Stackville, 
a  son  of  Lord  Wiltshire's,  a  long,  stooping  man  with 
the  wan,  eager  face  of  the  Stackvilles,  and  the  long, 
lean,  talented  hands  of  that  brilliant  stock. 

He  appeared  for  the  Sudbury-on-Tritham  District 
Council,  which  was  in  favour  of  the  scheme.  He  courte- 
ously brought  considerable  light  to  Richard's  quick 
intelligence. 

Then  things  improved ;   he  began  to  feel  his  ground. 

But  Godalming,  in  despair,  had  rushed  off  to  pro- 
cure Gregg.  He  brought  him  back,  almost  by  main 
force,  puffing  and  furious. 

He  interrupted  the  miserable  Richard  to  administer 
advice  and  maledictions  which  made  the  position  all 
the  worse.  At  last  he  blurted  out — audible  to  all  the 
room — "You  infernal  idiot." 

Richard  paused,  looked  down  at  him  with  burning 
eyes.  Then,  calmly  to  the  Committee: 

"My  lords,  I  think  it  would  be  more  convenient  both 
for  the  committee  and  myself  if  my  learned  friend — on 
the  other  side — would  cease  his  obstruction." 


"SHE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEAD"  221 

Everyone  held  his  breath.  Never  had  Gregg  been 
so  insulted. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Meyville,"  said  Lash- 
bridge  firmly. 

Gregg  rose,  purple  with  passion,  giving  the  glare 
full  play. 

"That  is  your  lordship's  opinion?" 

"It  is." 

"Then  there  is  only  one  course  open  to  me." 

"Which  you  will,  therefore,  be  compelled  to  take." 

A  mountain  of  defeated  pomposity,  Gregg  lumbered 
out  of  the  room. 

This  episode,  astounding  to  practitioners  at  West- 
minster, where  a  "scene"  is  practically  unknown,  gave 
new  confidence  to  Richard.  He  felt  himself  at  home — in 
the  King's  Bench.  He  finished  his  speech  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  called  his  first  witness.  Examina- 
tion-in-chief  is  almost  as  difficult,  though  not  so  showy 
an  art,  as  cross-examination. 

Now  Richard  was  a  master  of  it,  and  although 
the  latitude  allowed  in  questions  by  the  commit- 
tee simplified  the  task  enormously,  yet  his  skill  was 
evident. 

At  lunch-time  Moseley  brought  him  sandwiches  and 
a  whisky-and-soda,  whispering  in  a  confident  voice, 
"It's  all  right,  sir." 

These  words  were  balm  to  him. 

His  witnesses  turned  out  well,  and  he  got  the  best 
out  of  them.  The  holes  made  in  their  armour  by  the 
other  side  he  skilfully  repaired  under  cross-examina- 
tion. When  the  committee  adjourned  till  Monday,  he 
had  thrust  the  memory  of  his  opening  speech  to  the 
back  of  his  brain. 

The  robing-room  was  full,  vibrant  with  talk.    On  his 


222  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

entrance  a  hush  fell  over  it.  In  his  shirt  by  the  win- 
dow stood  Gregg,  arranging  his  tie. 

Instantly  he  turned  to  Richard: 

"What  do  you  mean,  young  man — what  the  devil 
do  you  mean  by  calling  me  'on  the  other  side' — me, 
your  leader?" 

The  young  man  walked  up  to  him  and  said  calmly 
but  deliberately: 

"Because  you  called  me  an  'infernal  idiot,'  so  I  called 
you  the  rudest  thing  I  could  think  of  at  the  moment. 
But  I've  had  time  to  think  over  the  matter,  and — I 
can  be  much  more  accurate  now — if  you  like." 

He  was  prepared  to  use  the  word  "cad." 

Gregg  foresaw  it,  and  shrank  from  it.  There  were 
several  men  in  the  room  who  hoped  for  it. 

Gregg,  however,  conscious,  it  may  have  been,  that 
the  word  was  well  deserved,  closed  the  episode  by  turn- 
ing abruptly  away,  growling  gruffly  to  himself. 

To  John  Moseley  this  scene,  witnessed  by  King's 
Counsel,  stuff-gownsmen,  and  clerks,  appeared  very  ill- 
advised.  He  respected  age.  He  respected  success. 
Also,  Richard's  attack  on  an  eminent  man  wounded 
him  in  his  tenderest  part,  his  respect  for  the  tradition 
of  the  Bar. 

Sympathetic  winks  from  other  clerks  reassured  him 
— in  a  measure.  Richard's  conduct  must  have  done  him 
an  immense  amount  of  good  or  an  immense  amount  of 
harm.  As  he  helped  him  off  with  his  robes,  handed 
him  his  tie  and  hat,  he  looked  curiously  into  his  face. 
As  Richard  tied  his  tie  his  eyes  calmly  regarded  his 
reflection  in  the  glass.  His  mouth  was  compressed,  his 
chin  looked  aggressive.  A  tiring,  embarrassing,  almost 
disastrous  day  had  produced  no  effect  upon  him. 

The  thought  that  summed  up  the  matter  in  John's 


"SHE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEAD"  223 

mind   was,   "I've   backed   a   winner — in    a   big   race." 

The  two  went  up  to  the  lobby,  which  was  thronged 
by  bustling,  busy  people  who  seemed  to  bustle  about  no 
particular  business.  Many  other  people  watched  this 
performance  with  reverent  awe. 

"Are  you  coming  back  to  the  Temple,  sir?" 

"Not  unless  there  is  a  conference.  I  tell  you  what, 
I'm  dead  tired.  I'm  afraid  I've  made  an  awful  mess 
of  it." 

"No,  sir,  I  think  not.  We  began  badly.  But  we're 
all  right  now,  sir."  Then,  confidentially,  he  continued, 
"It's  a  pity  that  you  haven't  had  any  experience  of 
this  sort  of  work.  But  somehow  or  other  we  must  get 
out  of  this." 

"I  agree.  How?  How  can  I  learn  Parliamentary 
procedure  in  twenty  minutes?" 

"I've  arranged  it,  sir." 

"How?" 

John  became  more  confidential. 

"You  know  Mr.  Torrance?" 

Richard  knew  him  by  name  as  a  K.C.  who  did  a 
great  deal  of  Parliamentary  work. 

"Well,  sir,  he's  in  a  very  bad  way  just  now.  You 
know,  he  made  a  lot  of  bad  investments — speculations 
in  concerns  he  appeared  for — wild-cat,  some  of  'em.  If 
he'd  gone  bankrupt  it  would  have  been  all  up  with 
him — just  the  same  as  if  he  had  been  mixed  up  in  a 
divorce  case.  So  he  arranged  with  his  creditors.  His 
clerk's  his  receiver — for  his  fees.  They  allow  him 
£2,000  a  year.  And  he'll  pay  them  off.  Torrance  is 
an  honourable  man,  sir." 

"But  how  does  the  honesty  or  impecuniosity  of  Mr. 
Torrance  help  me?" 

"In  this  way.     He's  coming  to  the  Temple  on  Sun- 


224  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

day  morning  at  11  o'clock  to  go  through  the  case  with 
you.  We  shall  have  the  printed  shorthand  note  to- 
morrow morning,  and  he'll  tell  you  exactly  what  to  do. 
In  a  few  hours  you,  sir,  being  what  you  are,  will  know 
as  much  as  he  does." 

"I  shall  be  out  of  town  on  Sunday." 

John's  figure  straightened.  His  eyes  were  piercing. 
He  was  no  longer  the  clerk.  He  was  the  partner.  The 
dominant  partner. 

"No,  you  will  be  in  the  Temple  on  Sunday.  This 
Bill  has  got  to  be  pulled  through." 

Richard  hesitated.     John's  eyes  searched  his  face. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,  that  there  are  any  courts — in 
England — that  sit  on  Sunday.  I,  as  your  clerk,  know 
of  no  appointment  for  Sunday." 

He  was  compelled  io  yield: 

"I  will  be  there." 

"Fifty  guineas  was  the  sum  I  mentioned  to  Mr. 
Torrance." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  a  K.C.  takes  money 
for — tutoring  ?" 

"He  has  a  son  in  a  cavalry  regiment." 

"Fifty  guineas  is  a  lot  of  money." 

"It  would  be  worth  your  while  to  pay  five  hun- 
dred guineas  to  get  this  Bill  through.  And,  judg- 
ing by  Lord  Lashbridge's  manner,  he'll  help  you 
all  he  can.  Which  is  a  lot.  He  is  the  com- 
mittee." 

"John,  you're  wonderful.  I  shall  not  come  to  cham- 
bers to-morrow.  Eleven  o'clock  on  Sunday." 

At  that  moment  Sir  Andrew  Kytnow,  the  member 
for  South  Kensington*  hailed  him: 

"Hullo,  Meyville.  How  are  you?  I  hear  you've 
fallen  foul  of  Gregg.  Quite  right.  Pompous  ass!  I 


"SHE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEAD"  225 

always  snub  him  myself  when  he  appears  before  me 
on  committees.     And  how  is  Mrs.  Ainslie?" 

John  turned  away  with  an  almost  imperceptible 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "She  ought  to  be  dead,"  he 
said  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"WOPSERING" 

RICHARD  drove  to  Green  Street,  where  he  found 
Gwen  in  the  drawing-room.  Unfortunately,  in  the  com- 
pany of  Wilfred. 

The  little  man  welcomed  him  with  enthusiastic  re- 
proaches. 

"My  dear  Richard,  I'm  delighted  to  see  you.  I 
hardly  ever  see  anything  of  you.  Since  you've  done 
so  well  for  yourself,  you  don't  seem  to  remember  your 
old  friend — and  lately  I've  been  far  from  well,  very 
far  from  well,  indeed." 

Gwen  interposed: 

"Much  farther  from  well  than  usual — by  many  hun- 
dred cubits." 

"Gwen  does  not  exaggerate.  Some  of  my  symptoms 
are  probably  unique  in  the  history  of  medicine.  I  have 
serious  thoughts  on  my  death — which  cannot  be  long 
delayed — of  bequeathing  my  body  to  the  Royal  College 
of  Surgeons.  It  would  be  a  revelation  to  that  most 
incompetent  of  all  professions.  I  tell  you,"  he  con- 
tinued very  seriously,  "if  I'd  employed  a  medical  man 
I'd  be  dead,  Richard,  that's  what  I'd  be — not  to  mince 
matters — dead !" 

"Oh,  Wilfred!    don't  be  absurd!"  smiled  his  wife. 

"She  takes  no  interest  in  me,  not  a  particle.  She's 
as  strong  as  a  horse.  Doesn't  know  what  a  headache 
is,  certainly  not  on.e  of  my  headaches." 


"WOPSERING"  227 

He  spoke  as  though  he  had  invented  a  special  brand. 
"And  she's  jealous  of  the  interest  that  people  take  in 
me.  Now,  I  don't  tell  everybody,  Richard" — here  he 
took  the  young  man  familiarly  by  the  arm — "what  I'm 
going  to  tell  you." 

And,  in  spite  of  Gwen's  remonstrance,  he  gave  Rich- 
ard a  good  half  hour's  lecture  on  his  miscellaneous 
maladies. 

"My  dear  Wilfred,"  said  Gwen  when  he  had  finished, 
"all  this  is  due  to  your  taking  a  course  of  Dr.  John- 
son's Radium  Pills  for  Robust  People.  They  didn't 
agree  with  you  at  all." 

"I  must  try  everything,  mustn't  I?  Besides,  there 
aren't  such  pills." 

"I  know,"  she  said  sweetly.  "You  think  yourself 
a  sort  of  Registry  Office  for  Patent  Medicines  in  which 
a  sample  must  be  deposited." 

He  ignored  her  definition  and  appealed  to  Dick. 

"She  takes  no  notice  of  me.  Just  when  I  want  to 
go  and  have  a  look  at  Harrogate  to  see  if  it  might 
suit  me,  she  goes  off  to-morrow  to  stay  with  people 
of  the  name  of  Wopser !" 

An  uncontrollable  smile  came  over  Richard's  face. 
He  dared  not  look  at  Gwen. 

"You  may  laugh,  but  there  are  such  people — the 
Reverend  Wopser,  Theodore  Wopser.  Gwen  was  at 
school  with  his  wife.  A  wretched  little  country  parson 
in  the  vicarage  where  there  isn't  room  to  swing  a 
cat !" 

"Clergymen  do  not  require  to  swing  cats.  They 
are  kind-hearted  as  a  class,"  Richard  said,  by  way  of 
excuse  for  his  continued  merriment. 

"Anyhow,  there's  not  room  for  Gwen's  maid.  But 
Gwen  is  so  fond  of  Mrs.  Wopser — devil  of  a  name — 


228  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

that's  she  always  week-ending  there.  How  often  have 
you  been  to  the  Wopsers'  this  year?" 

He  turned  to  his  wife,  who,  vibrating  with  laugh- 
ter, held  Les  Egarements  de  Marcel,  the  latest 
atrocity  of  I'ineffable  Boulevardier  "Willy,"  before  her 
face. 

"About  six  times." 

"I  see  nothing  funny,"  he  exclaimed  with  vacant  eyes. 
"Richard,  you  have  influence  with  my  wife.  Can't  you 
persuade  her  to  drop  the  Wopsers  ?  I  am  sure  they  are 
awful  people — though  I've  never  seen  them.  What  a 
name!  Wopser!  My  God!  Anyhow,  Gwen,  I  will 
never  have  the  Wopsers  in  my  house.  How  could  I 
say  to  any  friend  of  mine:  'Allow  me  to  introduce 
you  to  Mr.  Wopser.'  I  couldn't  do  it." 

"The  Wopsers  will  not  come  here,  dear.  Nelly  Wop- 
ser has  a  great  aversion  to  invalids." 

"Good."  Then  seized  with  an  idea,  he  asked  Rich- 
ard to  accompany  him  to  Harrogate. 

Richard  pleaded  work  in  the  Temple. 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Wilfred.  "I  know  it's  a  lie; 
I  can  always  tell  when  anyone  lies  to  me.  If  Gwen  were 
to  tell  me  a  lie,  I  could  detect  it  at  once.  She  knows 
that  as  well  as  I  do,  and  doesn't  dare  to.  It's  a  fact, 
old  chap." 

Gwen  shot  an  incredulous  glance  at  him. 

"You  never  do  ant/thing  for  me."  Her  husband 
asked  querulously,  "How  often  do  I  invite  you  to  lunch 
or  dinner  and  you  don't  come?  Even  Gwen  is  annoyed 
every  now  and  then.  I'm  not  going  to  Harrogate 
alone.  I  shall  now  go  to  the  Club  and  try  and  get  some 
one  to  come  with  me.  And  the  chances  are  a  thousand 
to  one  I  shall  find  a  bore.  There's  one  thing  I  can't 
tolerate,  and  that's  a  bore." 


"WOPSERING"  229 

When  he  had  gone  huffily  out  of  the  room,  Richard 
said: 

"If  that  is  really  his  view  of  bores,  suicide  is  his  only 
course." 

In  an  instant  they  were  in  each  other's  arms. 

"You  must  love  me  very  much  to  stand  him,"  she 
smilingly  said. 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair. 

"Tired?"  she  asked.  "You're  overworking.  There 
are  lines  round  your  dear  eyes.  I  don't  like  them. 
Remember,  I  love  you  for  your  looks  alone,  and  I  don't 
know  what  these  lines  come  from.  I'll  kiss  the  lines 
away." 

Abruptly,  he  said: 

"Wopsering  is  off." 

She  jumped  up  from  his  knees. 

There  was  a  flash  of  anger  in  her  eyes : 

"You're  joking.  You  oughtn't  to  joke  about  that. 
That's  sacred." 

"I'm  not  joking." 

"Oh,  this  is  too  cruel,"  she  cried.  "I've  been  think- 
ing about  to-morrow  for  days.  You  can't  disappoint 
me.  What  are  you  going  to  do?  Why  can't  we  go 
to  the  St.  Alphonse.  You've  taken  the  suite.  What 
has  happened?"  Then  in  a  softened  tone,  "My  darling 
isn't  ill?" 

He  told  her  of  what  had  happened  in  the  Lords  and 
of  his  appointment  for  Sunday.  As  a  human  being 
she  was  reasonable:  as  a  woman  she  was — a  woman. 
She  admitted  that  she  must  yield.  But  she  shed  a  few 
tears. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said,  brushing  them  away,  "but  I 
was  looking  forward  to  it  so  much." 

A  woman  doesn't  need  to  be  a  coquette  when  she  is 


230  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

sure  of  a  man's  love.  In  such  a  case  coquetry  is  an 
insult  either  to  his  intelligence  or  to  her  own. 

"So  was  I.     But  we  can  Wopser  next  week." 

"Promise,"  she  insisted,  her  fingers  closing  over  his. 

"I  swear." 

The  process  of  Wopsering  was  simple. 

Gwen  would  drive  in  a  cab  to  Victoria  Station,  and 
have  her  luggage — very  little — taken  to  the  cloak- 
room. Then  she  would  apparently  change  her  mind, 
employ  another  porter,  have  the  luggage  placed  inside 
a  four-wheeler,  and  drive  to  the  St.  Alphonse  Hotel, 
where  Richard,  as  Mr.  Mason,  had  engaged  a  con- 
venient suite,  from  which  they  did  not  emerge  till  Mon- 
day morning. 

In  consideration  of  Nelly  Wopser's  slight  collabora- 
tion in  the  matter,  the  wife  of  the  impecunious  Theobald 
was  the  best-dressed  woman  in  the  parish — owing  to 
clothes  for  which  Gwen  had  no  further  use.  Had  it 
not  been  for  the  beauty  of  her  apparel,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  Mrs.  Wopser — "Mrs.  Alibi"  as  Richard  called 
her — would  have  found  favour  in  the  sight  of  a  some- 
what critical  stockbroker  in  the  district. 

"Anyhow,  Richard,  you  can  take  me  to  St.  Alphonse 
to-morrow  night.  I  shall  have  the  wire  from  Nelly,  a 
child  will  have  whooping-cough.  Wilfred  will  be  at 
Harrogate.  Please  ?" 

The  St.  Alphonse  is  a  convenient  hotel  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Leicester-square,  where,  for  a  moderate 
sum,  a  small  suite  of  rooms  can  be  obtained.  The 
cooking  is  excellent.  The  approach  is  ideal,  at  the 
end  of  a  long  cul-de-sac,  in  which  no  person  of  any 
social  position  is  ever  seen. 

He  suggested  certain  rooms  off  St.  James's  Street. 
True,  they  were  more  costly.  Still,  now  that  he  was 


"WOPSERING"  231 

making  money,  he  need  not  hesitate  about  finance. 
And  the  rooms  were  really  beautiful. 

Suddenly  he  exclaimed: 

"We  needn't  postpone  the  Wopsers  at  all.  I  can 
leave  you  on  Sunday  morning,  go  to  the  Temple,  and 
come  back  to  my  darling,  who  will  be  waiting  for  me." 

"Splendid !"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  together. 

So  the  matter  was  settled. 

"Be  at  the  St.  Alphonse  at  seven  to-morrow,"  he 
said  as  he  went  out. 

"Wearing  a  dress  of  Paquin's  that  I  know  you'll 
like." 

In  an  ecstasy  of  contemplative  delight  Gwen  threw 
herself  at  full  length  on  the  sofa. 

On  the  Sunday  morning  she  awoke,  heavy  with  love 
languor.  On  our  return  to  consciousness  our  first 
thought  is  of  the  anxiety  or  the  joy  that  occupied  our 
minds  when  we  fell  asleep.  Her  first  thought  was  of 
Richard.  He  obsessed  her  brain.  And,  as  she  turned, 
wearily  emerging  from  the  clouds  of  sleep,  she  gave  a 
little  cry  of  delight  as  she  saw  him  by  her  side.  How 
splendid  he  looked !  His  hair  scarcely  dishevelled,  his 
profile  handsome  in  its  irregularity,  his  neck  like  a  white 
column.  For  a  dark  man  his  skin  seemed  singularly 
pale.  He  lay  with  his  head  turned  towards  her,  in  an 
attitude  of  easy  grace.  She  listened  to  his  calm,  regu- 
lar breathing,  the  sweetest  of  all  music  in  her  ears. 
With  a  rapid  movement  of  her  hand  she  scattered  the 
dream  dust  shed  by  Night,  and  sat  up  to  gaze  at  him, 
to  absorb  his  beauty.  But  she  hesitated  to  kiss  his 
closed  eyelids,  though  she  brought  her  lips  down  close 
to  his.  He  might  wake.  How  lucky,  indeed,  was  she 
that  he  was  altogether  hers!  And  yet  that  calm  face 
belonged  to  a  strenuous  fighting  man,  a  man  who  stood 


232  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

between  shivering  criminals  and  justice.  From  those 
lips  fell  words  that  sent  men  into  penal  servitude. 
Those  lips  kissed  hers.  From  those  eyes  shot  glances 
that  made  trembling  witnesses  reveal  their  secrets. 
Those  eyes  looked  at  her  with  love,  only  at  her  with 
love. 

"Darling  Richard,"  she  murmured,  as  she  stole  from 
the  room. 

She  returned,  having  bathed,  and  driven  away  the 
mist  of  sleep,  fragrant  as  a  flower,  her  skin  white  and 
inviting  as  a  camelia. 

In  her  eyes  flashed  two  brilliant  stars  of  tenderness 
as  she  noticed  that  in  his  sleep  his  right  arm  had 
stretched  out  to  where  her  head  had  reposed. 

She  nestled  by  his  side. 

Instantly  she  saw  a  fluttering  of  his  eyelashes.  Then 
the  eyes  opened,  and  his  lips  parted  with  a  smile  of 
complete  happiness. 

Her  white  teeth,  whiter  by  contrast  with  the  full, 
fresh  lips,  were  irresistible.  Instantly,  he  brushed  away 
the  cobwebs  of  sleep.  He  kissed  the  violet  rings  under 
her  eyes.  Her  skin  was  cool,  opalescent.  He  kissed 
her  on  the  lips;  and  his  lips  were  held  tight  by 
hers. 

Again  and  again  he  kissed  her  lips  with  violent, 
idolatrous  love,  the  love  that  absorbs  every  method  of 
loving.  The  morning  light  played  on  her  neck  lending 
it  a  sheen  like  satin.  He  kissed  her  neck. 

"Oh,  Richard,  oh,  Richard,"  she  murmured. 


At  half-past  ten  he  left  the  hotel  and  drove  down 
to  the  Temple. 

There  he  found  John,  evidently  in  an  evil  humour. 


"WOPSERING"  233 

"You  look  tired,  sir,"  he  said,  with  an  almost 
malicious  twist  of  his  mouth.  "I  thought  perhaps  you 
weren't  coming."  His  lips  shut  tight. 

Abruptly  Richard  answered: 

"Not  coming!"  Then,  on  his  way  through  the  pas- 
sage he  stopped  and  asked  sternly,  "What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  might  have — a  more  im- 
portant engagement." 

The  clerk's  tone  was  irritating,  practically  imper- 
tinent. 

Richard,  coldly  surprised,  stared  at  him. 

"Mr.  Torrance  sent  me  a  message  yesterday  to  say 
that  11.30  this  morning  would  suit  him  better  than 
eleven.  So  I  telephoned  to  Gloucester  Terrace.  Lady 
Meyville  told  me  you  had  gone  to  Brighton  till  Monday. 
She  didn't  know  which  hotel.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I  didn't 
know  which  way  to  turn.  I  couldn't  believe  that  you'd 
miss  the  appointment  for — anything.  So  I  telephoned 
to  Mrs.  Ainslie,  and  told  her  who  I  was,  and  explained 
the  matter.  She  said  I  needn't  be  uneasy,  as  she  knew 
for  a  fact  that  you'd  come  down  this  morning." 

"I  see.    I  said  I  would  be  here  and  I  am — am — here." 

But  the  clerk  did  not  go. 

"Well?" 

"It's  very  awkward  for  me,  sir.  I  ought  to  know 
where  you  are.  Supposing  anything  were  to  happen 
when  you're  supposed  to  be  at  Brighton?" 

The  emphasis  went  home. 

The  evident  justice  of  the  man's  protest  made  it  the 
more  galling. 

"What  made  you  think  of  Mrs.  Ainslie?  Why  did 
you  telephone  to  Mrs.  Ainslie?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

The  clerk  met  his  eyes  and  answered  deliberately: 


234  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Oh — I  know,  sir.  And,  what's  more,"  the  words 
came  hotly,  "you  ought  to  stop  it." 

Richard  rose,  livid. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  talking  to  me  like 
that?  How  dare  you?  Are  you  my  clerk  or  aren't 
you?" 

John  was  as  white  as  the  other. 

"In  a  sense  I  am  your  partner,  sir.  And — this — may 
ruin  your  practice." 

He  had  shot  a  piercing  shaft. 

The  position  was  intolerable.  Barristers'  clerks  have 
often  remonstrated  on  the  drinking  habits  of  their 
employers,  have  even  dragged  them  reeling  from  the 
neighbouring  taverns.  But,  probably,  never  before  had 
a  clerk  attempted  to  interfere  in  a  barrister's  love 
affairs. 

Richard  knew  that  the  man  was  within  his  rights, 
that  he  was  giving — from  his  point  of  view — shrewd 
counsel.  Were  not  the  idea  itself  so  preposterous,  John 
would  have  been  entitled  to  insist  on  his  yielding.  It 
was  not  part  of  their  bargain  that  he  should  render 
himself  amenable  to  the  Divorce  Court.  Still,  the  notion 
that  anyone  should  attempt  to  bring  about  an  estrange- 
ment from  Gwendolen  struck  him  as  grotesque. 

He  could  not  attack  John.  He  could  not  defend  him- 
self. He,  therefore,  nodded  as  a  dismissal: 

"I  understand." 

The  grim  tone  in  which  he  spoke  froze  further  con- 
versation on  John's  lips. 

He  went  from  the  room  glad  that  he  had  said  some- 
thing, regretful  that  he  had  not  said  more. 

At  last  Torrance  arrived,  a  thin,  grey  man,  with  a 
deep  guttural  voice  and  a  coarse  skin.  His  hands  were 
thin  and  very  dry,  almost  colourless.  His  nose  was 


"WOPSERING"  235 

broad,  intelligent,  and  aggressive.  His  brittle  nails 
were  square,  ribbed,  and  dirty.  He  was  not  modern, 
and  his  face  suggested  that  of  an  actor  made  up  as 
an  attorney  in  some  early  Victorian  play. 

He  placed  on  Richard's  table  the  printed  short- 
hand note  of  Friday's  evidence,  which  he  had  carefully 
read,  sat  down,  and  adjusted  a  tortoise-shell- rimmed 
pince-nez. 

By  one  o'clock  he  had  explained  to  Richard  the  errors 
of  his  opening  speech. 

Then  he  said,  brusquely,  "Now  we  adjourn." 

On  their  return  from  the  Savoy,  the  K.C.  explained 
to  his  interested  listener  the  best  method  of  conducting 
the  Bill,  and  of  replying  for  the  promoters.  Incidental- 
ly, he  congratulated  him  upon  his  examination  of  wit- 
nesses, and  made  several  bitter  allusions  to  Mr.  Gregg. 
By  five  o'clock,  when  he  rose  to  go,  Richard  had  learnt  a 
vast  amount  about  Parliamentary  procedure;  he  felt 
that  he  could  go  down  to  Westminster  on  Monday  with 
absolute  confidence  in  himself,  but  with  considerably 
less  in  his  case. 

f  \  Richard  was  profuse  in  his  thanks  as  the  lean  K.  C. 
went  out. 

In  the  passage  John  handed  him  the  hardly-earned — 
for  a  Parliamentary  barrister — fifty  guineas  in  notes  and 
gold. 

"Of  course,  this  is  between  ourselves." 

"Of  course,  sir." 

"Your  chief  is  a  very  clever  young  man.  He  will  go 
far.  I  wish  I  was  beginning  again,"  he  added,  with 
something  of  a  sigh.  He  wondered  whether  the  fifty 
guineas  would  be  sufficient  to  get  his  son  out  of  the 
current  scrape. 


236  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Immediately  afterwards  Richard,  eager  to  rejoin 
Gwen,  left  the  Temple. 

"John,  Mr.  Torrance  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  fond  of 
Mr.  Gregg." 

"No,  sir.  I  have  heard  that  Mr.  Gregg  let  him  into 
a  concern  in  which  he  lost  twenty  thousand  pounds. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  your — little  brush — with  Mr.  Gregg 
I  don't  think  Mr.  Torrance  would  have  given  you  so 
much  time  to-day.  Anyway,  it  was  because  you  were 
against  Mr.  Gregg,  and  his  being  so  hard  up,  that  I— 
approached  him." 

"You're  a  diplomatist,  John." 

"A  barrister's  clerk  has  to  be  a  bit  of  all  sorts — a  bit 
of  a  detective  sometimes." 

"Good  day,"  he  answered,  not  altogether  pleased  at 
John's  description  of  the  versatility  required  in  his  calling. 

At  the  hotel  Gwen  welcomed  him  with  delight;  she 
didn't  even  reproach  him  for  having  been  so  long  away. 

"I've  ordered  dinner  for  seven  sharp,"  she  said; 
"and  I've  ordered  a  simple,  an  absurd  dinner.  Lobster 
a  la  Americalne  and  grouse  and  steak  and  Burgundy." 

"Then,"  he  smiled,  "the  manager  will  know  we  are 
not  married." 

"And  you  are  to  have  coffee  to-night." 

"Why?" 

"Because  coffee  always  keeps  you  awake." 

"All  right,  darling." 

Then  he  questioned  her  about  John  and  the  telephone 
message. 

Why  hadn't  she  told  him  ? 

"My  dearest,  when  one  is  with  the  man  one  loves  one 
has — one  should  have — something  better  to  talk  about 
than  a  telephone  message  from  a  complete  stranger.  To 
have  remembered  it  would  have  been  an  insult  to  you." 


"WOPSERING"  237 

The  dinner  was  delightful. 

Both  were  in  high  spirits. 

"By  the  bye,"  she  said  suddenly,  leaning  across 
the  table,  the  pink  lights  shining  on  the  jewels  on  her 
tapering,  waxen  fingers,  "you  ought  to  belong  to  the 
Siddons  Club  and  the  Gridiron.  And  it's  very  nice  of 
me  to  make  this  suggestion,  because  I  know  what  will 
happen.  After  the  theatre,  you  will  go  to  supper  at  the 
Siddons — and  I  shall  have  to  drive  home  alone  with  an 
ache  in  my  heart  in  a  cold  brougham.  Oh,  dearest, 
you've  no  idea  how  cold  a  brougham  feels,  especially  at 
night,  when  you've  got  out  of  it.  But  you  must  cer- 
tainly belong  to  the  Gridiron.  Belonging  to  the  Grid- 
iron registers  a  man  as  a  celebrity  and  a  good  fellow." 

The  tone  in  which  she  gave  this  excellent  advice  was 
caressing  and  tender.  He  took  each  hand  and  kissed  it  in 
turn. 

"Lashbridge  tells  me  that  he  will  propose  you  for 
both." 

Stiffly  Richard  answered : 

"He  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  shall  be  put  up  by 
Tufnell  or  Charlie  Gault,  or  someone  of  my  own  pro- 
fession." 

"You're    still    stubborn    about    Lashbridge." 

"I'm  not  going  to  accept  favours  from  a  man  who  is 
in  love  with  you." 

"Would  you  like  everybody  else  in  the  world  to  hate 
me  ?  I  believe  you  would." 

"No,"  he  said  fiercely,  but  affectionately  pressing 
her  cheeks:  "I  want  everybody  else  to  admire  you — 
hopelessly." 

"Lashbridge  admires  hopelessly." 

"But  he  has  the  greatest  chance." 

"You  know — that?"  she  laughed. 


238  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"You  like  him,  and — he's  the  sort  of  man  that  would 
suit  you.  You  would  get  on  with  him.  If  I  thought  I 
were  telling  you  news,  I  shouldn't  tell  it  you." 

"Patrick." 

"Irish,  perhaps,  but  it  expresses  my  feelings.  If 
anything  were  to  happen  to  me,  I  believe  Lashbridge 
would  be  my  successor." 

"How  little  you  know  me,"  she  protested,  smiling 
and  shaking  her  head,  "how  foolishly,  grotesquely  little! 
I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  If  I  had  met  him  before  I  met 
you  I — might.  A  woman,  a  self-respecting  woman,  is 
not  going  to  her  grave  without  finding  out  what  love  is. 
She  knows  it  means — something.  Curiosity  compels 
her  to  find  out — what.  A  lot  of  so-called  love  is  merely 
curiosity.  But  in  you,  my  heart,  I  found  love  itself. 
Many  women  go  to  their  graves,  contented  mothers, 
stolidly  happy  wives,  without  ever  suspecting  its  real 
existence." 

"And  I  showed  it  to  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  eyes  gleaming  with  happiness. 
"That's  why  I  must  always  love  you.  That's  why  you 

must  always  love  me.  If  any  other  woman But 

she  did  not  finish  her  sentence.  A  wild,  strange  gleam 
came  into  her  eyes.  He  had  never  seen  her  look  like  that 
before.  He  had  no  knowledge  of  any  action  of  hers  which 
could  be  in  harmony  with  this  strange  expression.  Evi- 
dently in  her  temperament  there  existed  a  force  of  which 
he  was  unaware.  Just  so  he  had,  when  reconstructing  a 
murder,  imagined  that  the  criminal  had  looked  at  the 
moment  of  his  crime.  In  this  manner  a  tigress  might 
glare  when  fighting  to  the  death  for  her  young.  Gwen 
would  fight  to  the  death  for  his  love.  He  kissed  each 
quivering  eyelid,  and  when  she  looked  at  him  again  only 
tenderness  shone  in  her  eyes. 


"WOPSERING"  239 

Reassured,  he  laughed. 

"Some  souls,"  she  said,  "have  the  power  of  merging 
themselves  in  another,  and  when  the  other  is  gone  the 
power  of  loving  is  gone  too.  One  is  compelled  to  live  in 
the  memory  of  past  happiness,  happiness  that  I  can't 
explain,  even  to  you!" 

"The  only  possible  explanation  of  happiness  is  that — 
well,  that  one  is  happy." 

"  And  that  one  is  going  to  be  happy,  eh  ?  It's  half -past 
ten.  Time  for  all  good  barristers  to  be  in  bed." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A   GREAT  TRIUMPH 

As  RICHARD  was  leaving  the  St.  Alphonse  on  the 
Monday  morning  on  his  way  to  Westminster,  he  met 
the  manager  of  the  hotel,  the  effulgent  and  suave  Moziss. 

"I  hope  you  have  been  comfortable  during  your  stay, 
Mr. — Meyville,"  he  said  with  a  bright,  fat  smile,  and 
cheerfully  rubbing  his  hands  together. 

Richard  threw  him  a  quick  glance.  Why  did  this 
man  called  him  "Meyville"  instead  of  his  nom  d'hotel 
"Mason." 

"I  have  been  comfortable,  thank  you,"  he  answered 
coldly,  and  was  on  the  point  of  moving  away,  reflecting 
that  this  must  be  his  last  visit  to  an  extremely  convenient 
establishment,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  realising 
that  the  fact  of  being  a  celebrity  had  its  drawbacks. 

But  the  manager  persisted: 

"Really,  sir,  I  trust  you  will  permit  me  to  congratulate 
you  on  the  speech  you  made  in  the  breach  of  promise 
case  the  other  day.  That  was  what  won  me  over,  that 
and  the  fact  that  you  are  such  a  good  client.  All  the 
other  jurymen  wanted  to  return  a  verdict  with  thumping 
damages  for  the  plaintiff,  but  your  speech  won  my  sym- 
pathy, sir — and  you  have  always  been  so  complimentary 
about  the  hotel  that  I — well — stood  out." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Richard  replied,  "and  the  jury  disagreed. 
I  remember." 

"I  was  the  only  juryman  who  disagreed,  sir,"  answered 
the  manager.  "But  you  are  such  a  good  client." 


A  GREAT  TRIUMPH  241 

"Thank  you,"  said  Richard  stiffly,  "I  have  been  very 
comfortable," 

As  he  passed  out  into  the  street  he  reflected,  "It's 
astonishing  that  in  a  country  where  they  prohibit  gambling 
they  should  permit — justice!" 

All  that  day  and  the  greater  part  of  Tuesday  he  spent 
over  the  Sudbury-on-Tritham  Electric  Tramway  Bill. 

Before  the  committee,  to  the  intense  surprise  of  the 
other  counsel  engaged  in  the  case,  he  showed  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  Parliamentary  procedure.  The  report 
that  a  new-comer  of  extraordinary  ability  had  risen  spread 
with  marvellous  rapidity.  From  the  various  committee 
rooms  came  Parliamentary  agents,  solicitors,  and  quasi- 
jealous  juniors.  The  thing  in  itself  was  almost  a  miracle. 
Hitherto  no  barrister  had  come  straight,  as  it 'were,  from 
the  Old  Bailey,  fully  equipped  to  his  finger-tips  with  a 
knowledge  of  Parliamentary  procedure.  It  was  noted 
that  Lashbridge,  a  difficult  and  somewhat  haughty  chair- 
man of  committees,  treated  him  almost  with  deference. 
He  spoke  to  him  as  though  he  felt  for  him  that  respect 
which  was  only  due  to  men  like  Gregg  or  Jack  Bishop, 
the  leader  of  the  Parliamentary  Bar. 

Towards  the  end  of  Tuesday  afternoon  Lashbridge 
"  cleared  the  room  "  whilst  he  and  his  colleagues  considered 
their  decision. 

Outside  in  the  corridor,  Richard  walked  up  and  down 
with  John.  Every  now  and  then  the  clerk  was  approached 
by  various  people — strangers  to  his  master.  To  them 
he  talked  with  his  chest  expanded,  his  fingers  in  his  arm- 
holes,  after  the  manner  of  one  whose  privilege  it  was  to 
confer  favours. 

Not  all  at  once  did  he  give  affirmative  answers  to  the 
people  anxious  to  secure  the  services  of  Richard.  He  had 
value  to  dispose  of,  and  he  would  only  dispose  of  it  to 


242  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

the  highest  bidder.  His  hat  was  cocked  on  one  side, 
and  he  rather  suggested  an  auctioneer  presiding  over 
the  sale  of  a  priceless  and  unique  article  of  vertu. 

At  one  of  these  moments  it  was  that  Lord  Robert 
Stackville  approached  Richard.  The  wan,  intellectual 
face  of  the  barrister  lighted  with  a  smile. 

"I  congratulate  you,  Meyville,  most  heartily.  You 
have  done  exceedingly  well.  I  sincerely  hope  that  you 
will  be  one  of  us  now." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  say  that,"  Richard  answered. 
"I  think  I'm  beginning  to  know  the  ropes  now." 

"But  you'll  never  get  this  Bill  through,"  said  Lord 
Robert. 

"Why  not?" 

"For  one  reason,  my  dear  sir,  tramways  are  things  of 
the  past.  Any  money  that  is  now  invested  in  tramways 
must  be  lost.  Besides,  Lashbridge  is  the  worst  possible 
man  for  your  purpose." 

"Why?"  asked  Richard,  with  quick,  questioning  eyes. 

"Simply  because  he  is  chairman  of  the  Great  Southern 
Railway.  No  chairman  of  a  railway  can  look  with  favour 
on  tramways.  But,  mind  you,  you  had  an  absolutely 
hopeless  case  from  the  beginning." 

"  It  looked  infernally  hopeless  at  first,"  laughed  Rich- 
ard. 

"It  was  hopeless,  and  it  is  now,"  explained  Lord 
Robert.  "But  don't  be  in  any  way  depressed  by  a  first 
failure — especially  the  failure  of  an  enterprise  that  was 
foredoomed.  Of  course,  if  you  had  managed  to  prove 
your  preamble — single-handed,  as  you  were — your  triumph 
would  have  been  colossal." 

At  that  moment  the  doer  of  the  committee  room  opened 
and  the  counsel  streamed  in,  followed  by  a  huge  group 
of  people  more  or  less  interested  in  the  Bill. 


A  GREAT  TRIUMPH  213 

Richard  and  the  various  barristers  engaged  in  the  case 
sat  down  to  listen  for  the  decision. 

"We  find  the  preamble  proved,"  stated  Lashbridge 
briefly. 

There  was  a  gasp  of  amazement  throughout  the 
room. 

Richard  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears. 

"And  that's  the  man  I  mistrusted!  Still,  he  has 
done — too  much!"  he  said  to  himself. 

There  was  a  hectic  flush  on  either  cheek  as,  accom- 
panied by  the  jubilant  John  carrying  his  red  bag,  he 
strode  along  the  corridor. 

When  he  had  disrobed,  he  spoke  for  a  few  moments 
to  the  clerk  in  the  lobby. 

John's  face  shone  with  delight. 

"This  is  the  best  day's  work  we  have  ever  done,  sir. 
I  doubt  whether  any  man  at  the  Parliamentary  Bar  has 
ever  had  such  a  success.  They  are  all  talking  about  it. 
They  can't  say  enough  about  it.  I'll  tell  you  a  very  good 
sign,  sir.  Two  or  three  men  have  told  me  that  they 
know  of  good  sets  of  chambers  in  Westminster — cheap — 
comparatively." 

This  was  news  with  a  vengeance!  So  he  was  to  set  up 
a  branch  establishment,  was  he? 

"Within  the  next  week,  sir,  we  shall  be  turning  away 
work — the  best  sort  of  work." 

Then  his  enthusiasm  mastered  him. 

"I  do  sincerely  hope,  sir,  that  I  shall  always  know 
where  you  are  when  you  are — not  at  Brighton." 

Richard  made  no  reply.  The  two  jumped  into  a  cab 
and  sped  to  the  Temple,  where  three  consultations  had 
been  arranged. 

By  six  o'clock  Richard  had  finished  work  and  set  out 
on  his  walk  homeward. 


244  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Very  varying  had  been  his  frame  of  mind  during  these 
homeward  walks. 

He  remembered  that  he  had  passed  the  Post  Office  in 
the  Strand,  feeling  dejected,  almost  hopeless  of  his  future. 
He  had  walked  past  the  Cecil,  heated  with  the  reminis- 
cence of  some  trivial  triumph.  How  trivial  all  these 
triumphs  seemed  now!  What  was  his  success  in  the 
Yoghi  and  Priscilla?  The  most  highly  paid  services  are 
those  which  relate  to  large  financial  interests.  He  re- 
membered that  he  had  struggled — perhaps  for  five  hours, 
in  the  Whitechapel  County  Court — five  hours,  relieved 
only  by  the  genuine  wit  of  the  presiding  judge — for  a 
matter  involving  the  sum  of  £5.  Now  he  would  struggle, 
with  less  mental  wear  and  tear,  in  cases  in  which  thousands, 
perhaps  millions,  were  at  stake,  and  he  would  be  paid 
proportionately.  The  very  visage  of  London  alters  before 
the  successful  man.  Where  previously  he  had  seen 
gloomy,  soulless  buildings  in  the  height  of  summer,  now, 
in  the  middle  of  November,  the  street  lamps  gave  him  a 
cheery  welcome,  the  glittering  shops  smiled  at  him. 

Walking  along  Piccadilly,  he  was  suddenly  seized 
with  the  idea  that  he  wanted  a  new  hat.  In  the  days  of 
his  impecuniosity  he  had  often  been  in  sore  straits  for 
clothes.  But  so  good  was  his  figure  that  even  the  clothing 
so  much  despised  by  the  servants  at  Lashbridge,  when 
lying  in  his  portmanteau,  had  looked  well  cut  on  him. 
For  his  hats  he  had  never  paid  more  than  fifteen  shillings. 
Still,  he  had  always  selected  hats  that  had  something 
about  them  that  was  not  suggestive  of  the  City  clerk. 
A  young  man  with  a  clear-cut,  intellectual  face  does  not 
look,  perhaps,  the  worse  for  wearing  a  silk  hat  that  is  not 
as  effulgent  as  a  stockbroker's. 

He  went  into  Benham  and  Heath's. 

At  the  end  of  the  shop  he  saw  Billy  Brinstable,  talking 


A  GREAT  TRIUMPH  245 

loudly  to  a  couple  of  friends.  The  friends  were  over- 
dressed persons  with  predatory  noses  like  eagles,  shining 
hats,  and  glistening  black  hair.  They  belonged  to  that 
race,  which,  in  our  day,  shows  such  extraordinary  aptitude 
for  finance,  but  they  were  in  no  respect  amiable  repre- 
sentatives of  that  race. 

Richard  placed  his  hat  on  the  counter. 

The  shopman,  who  resembled  in  appearance  a  very 
eminent  dramatist,  examined  it  with  hostile  care.  The 
brim  was  limp  to  the  touch,  the  lining  was  coloured  like 
a  meerschaum  pipe. 

While  the  man  went  in  quest  of  a  new  one,  Richard's 
eyes  scanned  the  rows  upon  rows  of  white  hat-boxes  upon 
which  were  printed  the  most  distinguished  names  in  the 
kingdom.  Peers,  politicians,  authors,  financiers — Lord 
Lashbridge  and  Montague  Cliftonville  among  them. 

"I  wonder,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "whether  Messrs. 
Benham  and  Heath  will  ever  think  it  wise  to  advertise 
my  custom  in  this  manner?" 

Suddenly  Billy  sighted  him,  and  approached  him  with 
vast  enthusiasm. 

The  solicitor  had  grown  fatter,  redder,  and  more  puffy 
about  the  eyes,  more  expansive  in  his  movements  since 
his  marriage. 

"My  dear  Dick,"  he  cried,  seizing  his  right  hand 
between  two  chamois  leather  gloves,  "my  dear  Dick, 
how  are  you,  old  horse?  Here,  Maurice!  here,  Litchen- 
baum!  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my  brother-in-law. 
Here,  you  chaps,  this  is  Mr.  Richard  Meyville,  the  emi- 
nent barrister.  Mr.  Albert  Maurice,  Mr.  Z.  Litchen- 
baum — what  the  dickens  does  Z.  stand  for,  Litchenbaum  ?  " 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Mr.  Albert  Maurice. 

"Delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  said  Mr. 
Litchenbaum. 


246  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Wonderful  how  times  do  change!"  said  Billy.  "You 
wouldn't  believe  it,  but  when  I  became  engaged  to  his 
sister — only  at  the  beginning  of  last  year — he  was  almost 
a  briefless  barrister.  And  now  look  at  him!  Turning 
work  away!" 

Billy  spoke  proudly,  as  though  the  fact  that  he  had 
married  Richard's  sister  had  been  the  primary  cause 
of  the  barrister's  success. 

A  cynical  but  uncontrollable  smile  played  about 
Richard's  mouth. 

"Now  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  Billy.  "I'm 
giving  a  little  dinner  at  the  Carlton  to-night.  You'll 
dine  with  us?" 

"Do,"  urged  Mr.  Albert  Maurice. 

"There  is  no  one  with  whom  I  should  be  more  pleased 
to  have  a  little  chat  than  you,"  pressed  Mr.  Z.  Litchen- 
baum. 

"Ethel  will  be  delighted  to  see  you,"  said  Billy.  "These 
days  you  seem  too  busy  to  honour  Billy's  humble  roof." 

Richard  was  aghast  at  the  idea  of  Ethel  being  seen 
in  the  company  of  these  apparently  shady — if  not  actually 
shady — financiers. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  he  answered,  "but  I'm  dining  at 
home  to-night." 

"What!"  cried  Billy,  "in  that  stuffy  little  place  in 
Gloucester  Terrace!" 

"I'm  dining  with  my  mother,"  Richard  replied. 

The  tone  of  reproach  irritated  Billy. 

"Would  you  believe  it?"  he  exclaimed.  "Dick  here 
is  making  thousands,  and  he  still  lives  in  Bayswater." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Richard,  looking  coldly  at  Billy, 
"that  my  place  of  residence  has  anything  to  do  with  your 
friends."  Then,  in  a  lower  voice,  "I  am  very  anxious  to 
see  Ethel.  I  have  not  seen  her  for  some  time.  I 


A  GREAT  TRIUMPH  247 

shall  come  and  see  her  in  a  day  or  two.     Good-night." 

Then  he  turned  away  and  tried  on  his  hat. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "that  will  do.  Send  it  on."  And 
he  gave  his  name. 

The  shopman  stared  at  him  for  an  instant. 

"That  being  the  case,  sir,  I  don't  think  you're  choosing 
quite  the  right  sort  of  hat.  I  think  that  a  gentleman 
like  you  ought  to  have  a  more — distinguished  hat.  There's 
a  great  deal  in  the  brim  of  a  hat.  We  make  for  your 
brother,  Mr.  Cliftonville." 

"Oh,  do  you?"  commented  Richard.  "Yes,  I  see 
you  do.  I  always  imagined  that  he  had  his  hats  designed 
by  an  architect,  not  a  mere  hatter.  I  don't  consider 
that  a  hat  should  be  a  sort  of  public  monument." 

"No,  sir.  But  without  being  precisely  theatrical, 
you  should  have  what  I  might  style  a  more  eminent 
headgear.  I've  got  the  very  thing,  sir;  just  a  slight 
difference  in  the  width  of  the  brim." 

Richard  knew  that  the  man  was  right 

"Bring  it  here." 

He  tried  it  on.  He  looked  in  the  glass.  The  improve- 
ment was  enormous. 

The  hat  to  the  eminent  man  is  what  the  halo  is  to 
the  saint.  The  halo  does  not  add  to  the  sanctity  of  the 
saint.  But  each  explains  to  the  passers-by  in  what 
company  they  have  the  good  fortune  to  be. 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  I  had  better  make  you  another  one, 
sir,  and  I  will  keep  it  here  in  one  of  those  boxes,  and  when 
you  are  passing  you  can  change  it." 

A  smile  of  amused  satisfaction  stole  over  his  face.  So 
his  hat  was  worthy  of  a  place  in  the  hierarchy  of  hats! 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  this  other — 
hat  of  yours" — and  he  toyed  with  the  limp  brim — "sent 
home,  sir." 


248  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  answered  Richard. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "but  I  never 
thought  that  you  and  I — if  I  may  say  so,  sir — would  meet 
on  what  I  might  call  friendly  terms." 

Richard  stared  at  the  man. 

"And  why  not,  pray?     I  don't  understand." 

"Why,  sir,  after  the  way  you  turned  me  inside  out 
after  the  omnibus  accident  which  I  happened  to  witness 
from  this  door.  At  first  I  didn't  recognise  you  without 
your  wig.  After  all,  sir,  it  really  was  too  bad.  I  couldn't 
help  witnessing  the  accident.  That's  a  thing  that  might 
happen  to  anybody,  but  you  made  me  appear  the  most 
terrible  liar — you  did,  indeed,  sir;  and  I'm  not  sure — 
speaking  at  this  distance  of  time — that  you  didn't  make 
me  lie  something  horrible.  It  was  very  unpleasant  for 
me  to  sit  in  the  court  with  my  wife — who  had  come  for 
a  day's  outing — and  hear  you  speak  of  me  as  the  man 
'Willis.'" 

Richard  recollected  the  incident,  and  apologised  with 
a  smile. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Mr.  Willis.  But  do  you  know  that 
telling  the  truth  is  almost  a  lost  art  in  this  country?" 

"Bless  you,  sir,"  answered  the  other.  "It's  absolutely 
impossible  in  the  witness-box." 

"There's  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  that,"  reflected  Richard, 
as  he  left  the  shop.  "It's  as  hard  to  tell  the  truth  in  the 
Temple  of  Justice  as  it  is  to  be  amused  in  a  theatre." 


CHAPTER  XXin 

CONCERNING   THE   LOYALTY   OF   LADY   MEYVILLE 

He  walked  rapidly  along  Piccadilly,  and  as  he  turned 
from  Berkeley  Street  into  Berkeley  Square  the  fog  had 
thickened.  He  took  a  strange  pleasure  in  the  mystic 
effect  which  it  produced.  In  each  of  these  houses  in 
which  only  an  occasional  light  gleamed  were  mysteries  of 
love  and  sin  and  passion  and  desire;  secrets  only  to  be 
revealed  by  the  process  of  the  law.  Each  house  in 
Berkeley  Square  possesses  a  characteristic  of  its  own. 
Here  was  the  house  of  a  politician,  there  of  an  author, 
there  of  an  actor,  there  of  a  philanthropic  peer.  In  this 
square  there  is  probably  a  more  varied  assortment  of 
dwellers  than  in  any  other  in  London.  The  frontages  of 
each  bear  even  less  resemblance  to  their  neighbours  than 
do  the  occupants  themselves.  But,  suddenly,  by  the 
process  of  the  law,  all  the  secrets  of  the  occupants  may 
be  revealed. 

As  he  passed  along  the  north  side  it  gave  him  pleasure 
to  reflect  that  some  day  from  any  of  these  houses  a  man 
or  woman  would  lay  bare  to  him  a  secret;  that  he 
would  be  a  confessional  as  well,  perhaps,  as  an  avenging 
sword  or  a  bulwark  of  defence  in  time  of  trouble. 

The  dramatic  side  of  his  profession  fascinated   him. 

Were  it  not  for  John  and  his  bargain  with  him  he 
would  certainly  have  preferred  to  specialise  in  the  Divorce 
Court  and  in  causes  celebres,  whether  in  the  King's 
Bench  or  in  the  Central  Criminal  Court. 


250  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

He  walked  along  Green  Street  and  looked  up  at  Mr. 
Ainslie's  windows. 

There  were  lights  in  the  drawing-room. 

He  took  out  his  watch.  It  was  half -past  seven;  she 
hadn't  gone  up  to  dress. 

For  an  instant  he  wavered.  But  an  irresistible  desire 
to  see  her  seized  him.  He  was  warm  with  the  glow  of 
his  triumph,  and  the  natural  completement  of  a  man's 
success  is  appreciation  from  the  lips  and  eyes  of  the  woman 
he  loves. 

"Why  wasn't  she  his  wife?"  he  thought.  How  acute 
would  have  been  the  joy  if  it  had  been  possible  for  him, 
with  his  own  latchkey,  to  open  that  door  to  find  her 
eagerly  waiting  for  him.  To  dictate  to  her  definitely, 
precisely,  and  suddenly  as  to  which  dress  she  was  to 
wear,  to  whirl  her  off  to  a  tete-a-tete  dinner,  and  to  walk 
proudly  into  a  theatre  in  her  company  would  be  the  joy 
of  joys. 

The  great  charm  of  married  life,  he  thought,  lay  in  its 
surprises.  To  say  at  a  moment's  notice,  "We're  going 
to  dine  out,  and  we're  going  to  the  theatre,  and  we're 
going  to  have  a  little  supper  after,"  or  "Have  your  things 
packed  up,  darling,  and  we'll  go  to  Brighton  or  Paris 
by  the  next  train."  As  things  were  now,  every  pleas- 
ure had  to  be  calculated  and  arranged  for  in  advance. 

He  would  go  in. 

He  had  no  definite  object  before  him.  For  a  moment 
it  struck  him  that  they  might  dine  together  somewhere 
quietly  and  go  to  a  music-hall.  Still  he  hated  music-halls. 
Gwendolen  hated  music-halls.  In  them  was  only  to  be 
found  tedium  and  disappointment.  The  atmosphere, 
truly,  was  gay,  but  the  dullard  and  the  dolt  alone  appar- 
ently devoted  their  attention  to  the  amusement  of  the 
English  public. 


LOYALTY  OF  LADY  MEYVILLE  251 

Also,  his  mother  was  expecting  him. 

Yet  he  would  love  to  see  Gwendolen,  if  only  for  a 
minute. 

He  rang. 

Younghusband  showed  him  up  to  the  drawing-room. 

Gwendolen  was  seated  by  the  fire,  the  glow  shining 
on  her  face,  and  warming  the  pink  silk  of  her  gown. 

On  a  sofa  sat  Lashbridge. 

A  perceptible  cloud  passed  over  Richard's  face.  "What 
the  dickens  was  Lashbridge  doing  here  at  this  hour?" 

Gwendolen,  with  a  cry  of  pleasure,  rose. 

So  genuine  was  the  cry  that  Richard  felt  that  it  must 
be  intensely  galling  to  Lashbridge.  It  sounded  as  music 
in  his  own  ears. 

Instantly  she  took  him  by  both  hands. 

"My  dear  Dick,  Lash  has  just  been  telling  me  of  your 
triumph.  He  says  you're  the  most  wonderful  man." 

As  she  held  his  hands  her  eyes  sparkled  with  enthusiasm 
and  love. 

Lashbridge,  on  the  sofa,  gazed  at  the  two  with  a  semi- 
smile.  He  patted  his  long,  lean,  white  fingers  together 
rapidly.  Beyond  that  there  was  no  symptom  of  the  pain 
caused  to  him  by  Gwendolen's  exhibition  of  proud  love. 
But,  evidently,  he  felt  the  situation  intolerable.  He  saw 
himself  out  of  the  picture,  and,  for  him,  the  sight  of  the 
picture  was  by  no  means  pleasing. 

Rising  from  the  sofa,  he  said  slowly: 

"My  dear  Richard,  I  do  congratulate  you  most  heartily. 
At  one  time  I  was  afraid.  I  really  was  quite  nervous. 
I  almost  thought  that  you  might  break  down.  But  I 
helped  you — as  I  think  you  will  admit — as  much  as  I 
could." 

"Of  course  I  admit  it,"  answered  Richard,  with  as 
much  enthusiasm  as  he  could  muster.  "If  you  had 


252  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

done  anything  to  embarrass  me  further — well,  I  don't 
know  what  would  have  happened." 

Lashbridge  smiled. 

"  I'm  very  pleased  if  my — may  I  say  tact  ? — has  helped 
you  in  taking  a  step — a  somewhat  important  step— in 
what  I  am  sure  will  be  an  eminent  career." 

His  manner  was  charming. 

The  only  thing  that  made  Richard  doubt  his  absolute 
sincerity  was  the  deliberate  pomposity  of  the  words. 
Had  he  been  opening  a  bazaar,  his  language  could  not 
have  been  more  artificial,  more  unlike  the  real  man  when 
he  spoke  real  words.  The  genuine  assistance  that  he 
had  given  him  before  the  committee  made  this  insin- 
cerity the  more  mysterious. 

Then  Gwen  also  thanked  him.  Her  tone  conveyed 
both  to  Lashbridge  and  to  Richard  her  opinion  that  the 
favour  shown  to  her  lover  had  been  inspired  by  her.  But, 
in  her  words,  there  was  no  inkling  of  such  a  view. 

Lashbridge  took  his  leave. 

"How  long  has  he  been  here?"  asked  Richard  before 
he  kissed  her. 

"Three-quarters  of  an  hour." 

"The  devil!" 

"My  dear,  dear  Richard,"  she  protested. 

"No,  no,  of  course  I  don't  suspect  anything.  But 
what  do  the  servants  think?" 

"Servants  don't  think.  They  jump  at  wrong  conclu- 
sions by  a  natural  instinct." 

"That  man,  your  butler,  Younghusband,  thinks  you 
are  making  a  fool  of  me.  I  saw  it  in  his  eyes." 

She  laughed. 

"If  he  knows  anything,  he  knows  better.  Now,  I 
want  to  be  kissed,  please.  When  you  are  happy  you 
ought  to  be  nice.  Be  nice,  won't  you,  if  only  for — your 


LOYALTY  OF  LADY  MEYVILLE  253 

sake?  You  see,  I  am  not  selfish.  Aren't  you  sorry  for 
my  lips?  They  have  been  neglected  for  quite  three 
days.  Aren't  they  pale  and  hungry-looking?" 

He  drew  her  tightly  towards  him,  kissing  her 
with  long,  warm  kisses.  Her  breast  heaved  against 
his  chest. 

"Oh,  Richard,  what  wonderful  power  you  have  over 
me!" 

There  was  a  note  of  fierceness  in  her  voice.  Futile 
fierceness.  But  she  gave  vent  to  the  grievance  of  her 
life. 

"This  can't  go  on.  No  one  who  loves  as  I  love  can 
stand  it.  There  are  days  when  I  don't  see  you.  I  must 
see  you  every  day.  Even  if  I  only  see  you — I  tell  you 
what  you  must  do,"  then  she  broke  off.  "Oh,  if  only 
you  were  in  any  other  profession  we  could  run  away." 

"My  darling,  there  is  nothing  I  should  like  more  than 
to  run  away  with  you.  But  the  only  profession  that  I 
could  belong  to — in  which  I  should  not  be  ruined  by  that 
process — would  be  that  of  a  capitalist  or  an  actor." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  answered,  her  breath  coming 
quickly.  "But  the  fact  remains  that  we  are  wasting 
years  and  years.  Every  day  I  don't  see  you  is  a  year 
wasted.  How  many  years  do  you  suppose  I've  got  to 
love?  Think  of  it.  I  am  over  thirty!" 

"My  dear,  that  is  young." 

"For  a  woman,"  she  answered,  "but  not  for " 

"Not  for  what?"  he  asked. 

"Can't  you  guess?" 

She  dropped  her  head  and  brushed  his  lips  with  her 
hair. 

"  Can't  you  guess  ? "  she  repeated.  "  A  mother.  We're 
wasting  a  lot  of  precious  time.  I'd  give  anything  if  it 
could  happen  now." 


254  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

He  lifted  up  her  head  and  held  her  cheeks  between 
his  hands.  Their  eyes  were  lost  in  each  other's. 

"Do  you  really  mean  that?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"I  mean  it,  oh,  I  mean  it, "she  whispered,  "and  think 

of  the  time  that  has  been  wasted!  Think  of It's 

cruel,  too  cruel.  Look  at  the  wicked,  wicked  waste. 
The  great  glory  of  a  woman  is  to  be  a  mother.  Oh,  I'm 
not  proud,  but  I  think  that  a  son  of  yours  and  mine 
would  be  a  wonderful  son.  He  would  have  your  genius, 
yes,  and  your  looks.  He  would  be  exactly  like  you. 
He  would  be  just  as  clever  as  you.  And  he  would  be  just 
as  great  as  you.  For  you  are  going  to  be  great,  Richard." 
Then,  with  a  little  pout,  she  said  pleadingly:  "But  I 
should  like  to  have  him  just  something  of  me,  just  some 
little  thing  to  remind  you  that  he  really  was  our  son — 
yours  and  mine.  Still,  I  don't  know  that  anything  I 
could  give  him  wouldn't  be  a  sort  of  defect." 

"Good  God,  Gwen!"  he  cried,  as  he  threw  his  arms 
around  her.  "It's  a  foolish  confession  to  make,  but  I 
never  worship  you  so  much  as  when  you're  flattering  me." 

He  could  tell  that  she  was  laughing  when  she  answered : 

"But,  you  know,  the  funny  thing  is,  Richard,  that  I 
firmly  believe  in  all  this  flattery." 

"I  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  "the  child  is  not  to  be  a 
boy  at  all/' 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  she  protested,  "the  first  child  of 
people  who  are  really  and  truly  in  love  is  always  a  boy. 
If  it  were  a  girl  I  should  feel  that  you  didn't  really  love  me." 

"It  has  got  to  be  a  girl,  and  it  is  to  be  all  beautiful — 
like  you.  You  are  so  beautiful.  I  worship  your  beauty. 
You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world." 

"If  that  is  so,"  she  smiled  with  a  tender  smile  of  satis- 
faction, "you'll  always  be  faithful.  That's  a  very  good 
sign,  but — this  is  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  I  have 


LOYALTY  OF  LADY  MEYVILLE  255 

made  it  clear,  haven't  I,  that  I'm  not  going  to  stand  this 
separation  any  longer  ?  You're  making  a  lot  of  money, 
and  you  could  take  a  really  good  flat.  You've  got  to 
take  a  flat  somewhere  near  here — in  Mount  Street,  or, 
perhaps,  Hay  Hill,  and  you've  got  to  have  a  manservant 
who  is  devoted  to  you.  You're  plways  liked  by  servants 
and  children  and  dogs.  That's  a  certificate  of  character, 
if  you  like.  Yes,  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  a 
devoted,  confidential  manservant,  and  then  I  shall  be 
able  to  see  you  whenever  I  like,  and  as  long  as  I  like." 

His  brows  drew  together  in  a  slight  frown. 

"I've  been  thinking  of  taking  a  flat — but " 

"But,"  she  interposed,  "you  can  afford  it  now." 

"I  can  afford  a  first-class  flat,"  he  answered;  "but 
I  shall  have  to  take  my  mother  to  live  with  me." 

She  stood  erect,  an  angry  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  this  is  too  muoh!  You  can't  love  me!  More 
obstacles!  Isn't  your  mother  perfectly  happy  in  Glou- 
cester Terrace?  You've  refurnished  it  for  her." 

"At  her  age  I  can't  leave  her  alone." 

"Why  can't  she  go  and  live  with  your  sister?  Why 
can't  she  go  and  live  with  Montague?"  flashed  Gwen. 
"You're  the  scapegoat  of  the  family.  You  have  to  do  all 
the  unpleasant  work.  What  does  Ethel  do  for  her? 
The  proper  place  for  a  mother  to  live  is  with  her  daughter." 

"The  natural  degeneration  of  a  mother  is  into  a  mother- 
in-law,"  he  answered.  "I  don't  think  Billy  Brinstable 
would  care  for  that  arrangement.  But  you  don't  seem 
to  understand  that  I  am  fond  of  my  mother." 

"And  I  am  your  mistress,"  she  claimed. 

"Of  course,  dear,"  he  answered  soothingly.  "You 
know  nothing  in  the  world  would  delight  me  more  than 
to  have  a  flat  that  would  be — ours.  But  my  mother  has 
had  a  hard  time  of  it.  She  has  had  more  trials  and 


256  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

sorrows  than  you  know  of.     And  she  is  fond  of  me." 

"Fond  of  you?"  asked  Gwen,  and  there  was  a  jeering 
note  in  her  voice.  "You  know  that  she  prefers  her 
mummer  son.  Everybody  knows  that.  Everybody  knows 
that  she  is  proud  of  Ethel  having  a  house  in  Mayfair, 
and  you  know  she  goes  about  saying  what  a  great  grief 
our  liaison  is." 

"Stop!"  ordered  Richard.  "It  isn't  possible.  Don't 
say  such  things." 

Gwendolen  turned  away  to  the  looking-glass.  With 
an  affectation  of  carelessness,  she  performed  an  un- 
necessary operation  on  her  hair. 

"My  dear  boy,  it's  perfectly  true.  Absolutely  and 
completely  true." 

"It  is  not  possible,"  said  Richard;  "it  is  not  possible. 
No  mother  would  do  a  thing  of  that  sort.  Who  told  you 
that  she  knows  anything  about — us?" 

"My  dear  Richard,  Bayswater  is  not  quite  Hammer- 
smith. They  do  hear  of  things  there.  Remember,  I 
am  a  Bayswater  girl  myself.  I  have  recovered  from  it." 

This  was  really  a  blow  to  the  heart  for  Richard.  He 
had  always  done  his  best  for  his  mother.  He  had  always 
been  devoted  to  her.  Not  only  did  he  love  her  as  a  son, 
but  he  liked  her  as  a  friend.  And  to  hear  that  she  was 
indiscreet  in  her  motherhood,  disloyal  in  her  friendship — if 
Gwendolen  was  right!  But  Gwendolen  was  always 
right.  She  jumped  at  no  conclusions.  She  could  dis- 
criminate between  facts  and  tittle-tattle.  Gravely  he 
looked  at  her: 

"Gwen,  I'm  really  sorry  that  you  told  me  this." 

"I  am  your  mistress,"  she  answered.  "You  and  I 
are  in  partnership;  it  is  the  only  partnership  for  you  and 
me.  I  have  no  wish  to  make  trouble  between  you  and 
your  mother.  I  only  fight  for  my  own  hand,  and 


LOYALTY  OF  LADY  MEYVILLE  257 

my  hand  is  yours.     And  I  am  going  to  fight  for  you." 

Her  eyes  were  flashing  and  her  cheeks  were  pale. 

"Remember  this,  Richard,  that  I  put  you  on  one 
side  and  the  rest  of  the  world  on  the  other.  Nothing 
counts,  nothing  matters  to  me  but  you.  I'm  going  to 
keep  you  against  anything  or  anybody." 

Was  it  not  well  to  be  loved  thus? 

But  his  mother!  He  felt  a  sickening  sensation  of 
foreboding  in  his  heart. 

He  knew  that  when  Fortune  comes  to  a  man,  bearing 
lavish  gifts  in  one  hand,  she  carries  a  drawn  sword  in 
the  other. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  GREAT  SORROW  AND  THE  TOPIC 

By  the  clock  at  the  Marble  Arch  he  saw  that  it  was  well 
after  eight. 

Instantly  he  jumped  into  a  hansom  and  drove  to 
Gloucester  Terrace. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  entered  his  home  with 
an  uneasy  feeling  of  suspicion.  He  was  conscious  that 
there  was  a  certain  coldness  in  the  kiss  he  pressed  to  his 
mother's  forehead.  With  an  air  of  resignation  that,  in 
his  present  state  of  mind,  he  considered  unnecessary,  she 
said : — 

"You're  getting  later  and  later  for  dinner,  Richard. 
I  suppose  before  long  I  shall  never  see  you  at  all." 

During  dinner  he  felt  in  no  mood  to  describe  to  her 
the  success  of  the  afternoon,  to  descant,  as  a  day  or  two 
before  he  would  have  loved  to  do,  on  the  prospects  that 
the  future  held.  Instead  of  this,  he  talked  on  trivial 
matters,  and  regarded  her  critically,  carefully,  weighing 
the  words  she  spoke. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  aged.  There  was  a 
lack  of  repose  about  her,  a  certain  nervous,  bird-like 
movement  of  the  head. 

"I  saw  Billy  this  afternoon,"  he  said.  "He  asked 
me  to  dine  with  him  to-night.  I  must  say  he  had  two 
very  peculiar  friends  with  him." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "William's  friends  are  not 
very  distinguished.  It  seems  a  pity  that  nowadays 
people  have  to  mix  up  business  with  pleasure.  In  the 


THE  GREAT  SORROW  AND  THE  TOPIC    259 

old  days  business  men  used  only  to  see  their  business 
friends  in  the  City.  Now  there  is  no  such  thing  as  home 
life." 

"I  myself,"  replied  Richard,  "don't  see  why  a  business 
friend  shouldn't  be  a  personal  friend.  But  the  two 
men  I  saw  Billy  with  to-day  are  entirely  undesirable  in 
either  capacity.  They  are  ordinary  City  sharks.  Also 
they  are  Jews.  In  order  to  do  business  successfully 
even  with  honest  Jews  one  has  to  be  a  very  brilliant 
man.  To  do  business  successfully  with  dishonest  Jews 
one  has  to  be — a  dishonest  Jew." 

"My  heart  bleeds  for  Ethel,"  said  his  mother.  "You 
know  how  refined  she  was,  and  is,  of  course.  I  can't  think 
that  she  can  be  happy  in  her  surroundings.  Still,  I  had 
always  hoped  that  my  only  daughter  would  live  in  May- 
fair.  After  all,  it  is  something  to  have  a  house  in  May- 
fair." 

Richard  shot  a  keen  glance  at  her.  It  seemed  to  him 
so  lamentably  little  to  have  a  house  in  Mayfair,  if  the 
home  were  unhappy;  the  geographical  fact  appeared 
scarcely  worth  mentioning.  His  mother's  remark  struck 
him  as  foolish.  But,  after  all,  she  was  an  old  woman. 
After  a  certain  period  in  life  the  mind,  as  well  as  the 
body,  deteriorates.  After  a  certain  period  the  wisdom 
of  old  age  is  very  much  akin  to  the  inexperience  of 
youth. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  William's  business? — 
how  he  is  getting  on  ?" 

He  had  heard  sinister  rumours.  But  he  had  no  wish 
to  cause  her  anxiety. 

"He  never  sends  me  any  briefs,"  was  his  answer. 

"I'm  afraid,  Richard,  you  only  think  about  yourself." 

He  opened  wide  eyes  of  astonishment. 

"I  suppose  if  William  considered  you  were  the  best 


260  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

man  to  employ  for  his  sort  of  work,  he  would  employ 
you,  wouldn't  he?" 

"There  are  two  opinions,"  he  replied,  "about  every- 
thing— even  about  barristers." 

He  was  genuinely  surprised  at  the  suggestion  of  selfish- 
ness. 

"I  think  you  ought,  if  only  for  your  sister's  sake, 
to  find  out  something  more  definite  about  William.  But 
I  suppose  you  are  too  engrossed  in  your  own  affairs." 

A  thrill  of  pain  shot  to  his  heart.  By  the  light  of 
Gwendolen's  statement  he  saw  through  a  long  vista  of 
conversations  that  he  had  held  with  his  mother.  So 
confident  had  he  been  of  his  love  for  her  that  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  she  did  not  regard  him  with  anything 
but  the  warmest  affection.  True,  he  had  always  known 
that  Montague  was  her  favourite  son.  "How?"  he 
asked  himself,  "  could  he,  a  barrister,  a  man  with  an 
alert  .brain,  have  been  blind  all  this  time?"  And  then 
he  recollected  the  fact  that  barristers  almost  automatically 
shake  off  in  private  life  those  arts  of  observation  and 
deduction  which  they  so  strenuously  exercise  in  their 
hours  of  labour.  The  expression  "only  daughter" 
which  she  had  just  used  would,  a  day  or  two  before, 
have  seemed  to  him  insignificant,  but,  with  the  suspicion 
that  he  now  felt,  it  struck  him  as  a  slur  upon  himself. 

Then  she  turned  the  conversation  to  Montague.  How 
cruel  the  critics  were  to  him!  How  unthinking  the 
attitude  of  the  public!  Montague  was  the  greatest 
actor  there  had  ever  been,  and  yet  the  critics  found  absurd 
faults  with  him.  Why  had  he  not  been  knighted  ?  Why 
did  the  public  refuse  to  patronise  certain  plays  in  which 
he  acted  with  such  marvellous  skill  ? 

The  answer  to  these  questions  Richard  knew;  but 
he  didn't  think  it  prudent  to  give  them. 


THE  GREAT  SORROW  AND  THE  TOPIC    261 

"I  should  dearly  love  to  see  my  eldest  son  knighted," 
she  concluded. 

There  was  a  certain  touch  of  scorn  about  his  lips  as  he 
asked: 

"Would  it  annoy  you  very  much  if  your  second  son 
were  knighted?" 

To  his  surprise  she  treated  the  question  as  a  joke. 

"There's  not  much  chance  of  that,"  she  laughed. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  he  replied  quite  gravely,  "At- 
torney-Generals are  knighted:  Solicitor-Generals  are 
knighted:  Judges  are  compelled  to  be  knighted." 

"Surely,  Richard,  you  don't  imagine  for  one  moment 
that  you  can  ever  be  made  a  judge?" 

"One's  prophecies  about  oneself  are  always  ridicu- 
lous— except  to  oneself,  and  perhaps  to  one's  mother," 
and  he  could  not  forbear  to  add,  "  and  to  the  woman  one 
loves." 

Her  lips  shut  tight  as  she  answered : 

"Ah,  that's  it."  She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "That's 
the  obstacle.  I  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Bolitho,  and  you 
know  that  her  husband  is  a  solicitor.  Well,  I  was  telling 
her  what  a  great  grief  it  was  to  me." 

There  was  a  cold  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  asked  slowly: 

"What  was  a  great  grief  to  you  ?" 

"Why,  about  you  and  Mrs.  Ainslie." 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed  under  his  breath,  "then 
it  is  true." 

"What  did  you  say?"  she  asked. 

"I   said   nothing,   nothing.     I  was  only  thinking." 

"And,"  she  continued,  "Mrs.  Bolitho  entirely  agreed 
with  me.  She  said  what  a  pity  it  was  that  you  were  quite 
throwing  yourself  away.  That  you  could  never  reach  a 
really  good  position,  that  her  husband  would  like  to  give 
you  work,  but  that  he  could  never  trust  a  man  who  was 


262  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

tied    to    the    apron-strings    of — that    sort    of    woman." 

Without  looking  at  her  he  answered  slowly,  grimly: 

"Mrs.  Ainslie  does  not  wear  aprons.     Mrs.  Ainslie  is 

not  'that  sort  of  woman.'     I  know  the  expression  means 

an  insult,  and  that's  all  I  know  about  it." 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  replied  his  mother. 
"But  everybody  says  the  same  thing  about  you  and  Mrs. 
Ainslie." 

"Everybody  that  you — talk  to  about  it?" 
"Yes,   and   it's   not  fair   to   Montague.     I   shouldn't 
be  at  all  surprised  if  one  of  the  reasons  why  he  hasn't 
got  his  knighthood  is  owing  to  your  behaviour." 

Good  heavens!  His  brain  reeled.  He  had  heard 
many  conversations  among  the  Bays  water  matrons.  He 
knew  the  extremely  parochial  views  with  which  they 
looked  on  the  life  of  their  suburb;  how  they  judged  the 
world  from  the  bargain-counter  at  Whiteley's.  It  might 
well  be  that  his  mother's  old  age,  assisted  by  the  stulti- 
fying process  of  her  friends'  companionship,  was  weaken- 
ing her  intellect.  He  knew  that  in  Bayswater  sub-society 
matrons  who  had  not  the  good  fortune  to  be  suffering 
from  obscure  bodily  ailments  would  actually  bring  into 
the  conversational  forum  the  delinquencies  of  their  own 
sons.  What  his  mother's  companions  thought  of  him 
mattered  not  one  tittle.  But  it  seemed  extraordinary  to 
him  that  she  should  show  such  appalling  mental,  and, 
indeed,  moral  deterioration. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  take  a  flat  some- 
where in  Mayfair.  I  can  easily  afford  it  now;  and  I 
want  you  to  come  and  live  with  me.  I  am  making  pro- 
gress, and  it  would  be  much  more  convenient  for  me  to 
live  in  a  more  central  position.  Besides,  it  would  effect 
a  saving  of  the  money  I  allow  you." 


THE  GREAT  SORROW  AND  THE  TOPIC    263 

She  pursed  up  her  lips.  Her  cheeks  flushed  as  though 
they  had  received  a  blow. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  answered.  "I  quite  under- 
stand what  that  means.  Mrs.  Ainslie  lives  in  Mayfair." 

His  tolerance  was  at  an  end. 

"That  will  do,"  he  answered. 

He  rose  from  the  table  and  walked  to  the  door. 

With  his  hand  on  the  knob  he  turned  to  her. 

"I  am  now  going  to  telephone  to  Mrs.  Ainslie.  If 
she  is  in,  I'm  going  to  Green  Street." 

She  glared  indignantly  at  him. 

"Richard,  you  are  the  great  sorrow  of  my  life." 

"No,"  he  answered,  "lam  your  great  topic  of  conver- 
sation." 

Then  he  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   POSITION   OF   BILLY 

DURING  the  rest  of  that  term  Richard  prospered 
amazingly. 

Even  John  was  more  than  satisfied.  He  could  not, 
however,  regard  Mrs.  Ainslie  as  other  than  a  disturbing 
possibility.  Nothing,  however,  had  occurred  to  increase 
his  deep-seated  disapproval  of  the  liaison. 

Richard  had  taken  a  flat  in  Hay  Hill,  the  decoration 
of  which  he  had  left  entirely  to  Gwendolen,  much  to  her 
delight.  Though  he  had  no  particular  appreciation  of 
beautiful  things,  he  had  an  instinctive  dislike  for  the  ugly, 
a  fact  which  gave  her  no  slight  pleasure.  She  understood 
that  his  whole  artistic  appreciation  was  centred  on  her. 
In  his  eyes  she  was  the  concentration  of  beauty. 

Until  the  flat  had  been  completely  decorated  and 
furnished,  he  had  not  set  a  foot  in  it,  and,  on  its  comple- 
tion, she  had  shown  it  to  him  with  pride. 

He  had  pronounced  it  "all  right."  This  faint  praise, 
after  all  the  trouble  she  had  taken,  might  have  been 
galling,  but  for  her  complete  understanding  of  his  tem- 
perament. 

"If  you  like  it,"  he  added,  "if  it's  good  enough  for 
you  to  come  here,  that's  all  I  want.  It  is  more,  far 
more  than  I  deserve." 

Now  that  he  was  in  possession  of  the  flat  there  was  no 
longer  any  necessity  for  mysterious  visits  to  "Brighton" 
or — elsewhere.  At  any  moment  John  could  communicate 
with  him  by  telephone. 


THE  POSITION  OF  BILLY  265 

Thus  the  clerk,  while  heartily  disapproving  of  the 
whole  affair,  was  more  or  less  lulled  into  acquiescence. 

After  the  unfortunate  episode  with  his  mother  Richard 
saw  little  of  her,  and — in  a  measure — this  estrangement 
influenced  his  relations  with  his  sister.  He  felt  that  his 
family  did  not  appreciate  him,  that  they  did  not  require 
him.  He  had  done  his  best  for  his  mother,  and  he  had 
done  his  best  for  Ethel.  And  there  was  an  end  to  the 
matter.  In  addition,  there  lurked  in  his  mind  a  sinister 
foreboding  with  regard  to  his  sister.  Of  whatever  dis- 
aster that  foreboding  might  be  the  precursor,  he  knew 
that  he  would  be  powerless  to  prevent  it.  Billy  must 
remain  the  master  of  the  situation.  Billy  had  decided 
upon  what  lines  he  should  conduct  his  business.  If  the 
business  prospered,  so  much  the  better.  If  the  business 
failed,  so  much  the  worse. 

Richard,  indeed,  had  little  faith  in  the  methods  of  his 
brother-in-law;  but  he,  himself,  was  powerless  to  interfere. 
At  times  disquieting  rumours  reached  him.  He  heard 
that  Billy  was  mixed  up  in  transactions  which,  if  not 
exactly  shady,  could  scarcely  be  called  highly  repu- 
table. . 

On  the  rare  occasions  when  he  saw  Ethel  he  gave  her 
every  opportunity  of  telling  him  anything  that  was  on  her 
mind.  But  she  never  complained  either  of  her  husband 
or  her  husband's  friends.  Therefore,  almost  against  his 
better  judgment,  he  was  persuaded  into  believing  that 
all  was  well,  but  well  in  a  way  with  which  he  had  no 
sympathy. 

At  Christmas-time  Gwen  and  he  and  Wilfred  went 
to  Monte  Carlo,  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  the  unfortunate 
husband. 

"Absolutely  absurd,"  he  said  j>ver  and  over  again, 
"to  go  to  Monte  Carlo  at  this  time  of  the  year!  I  can't 


266  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

possibly  come  back  until  May.  I  know  perfectly  well 
that  when  my  system  has  got  accustomed  to  the  climate 
of  the  South,  if  I  return  either  in  February,  March  or 
April,  I  shall  probably  catch  bronchitis  and  die.  It  is 
sheer  foolhardiness  for  me  to  go,"  and  so  forth  and  so  on. 

Gwendolen,  however,  over-persuaded  him. 

"You  can  stay  out  there,  my  dear,  as  long  as  you  like. 
But,  of  course,  Richard  must  be  back  for  the  opening  of 
the  Courts  in  January." 

They  spent  a  delightful  time  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris. 
But  on  the  ninth  of  January  Richard  had  to  return. 

Two  days  before  his  departure  the  three  of  them  were 
sitting  at  tea  in  the  Gallery  in  front  of  Giro's.  Gwendolen 
and  Richard  seemed  depressed,  Wilfred  peevish  and 
irritable.  Suddenly  he  snapped  out  at  his  wife. 

"Why  don't  you  go  home  with  Richard?" 

Her  eyes  stared  blankly  at  him.  "Why — don't  I  go 
home  with  Richard?" 

Was  he  speaking  sarcasm  or  sense  ?  she  wondered. 

"Why,"  she  added,  "because  I  am  staying  here  with 
you." 

He  crossed  his  legs  petulantly,  kicking  at  a  chair. 

"I  can't  stand  being  alone  with  you,  and  you  know  it. 
You  always  rub  me  the  wrong  way  when  we're  alone 
together." 

"My  dear  Wilfred." 

His  tongue  clicked  on  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

"Oh,  you  do — you  know  you  do.  I'm  not  well  enough 
to  be  annoyed.  I  ought  never  to  be  irritated.  There's 
nothing  worse  for  me  than  to  be  irritated." 

It  was  obvious  to  her  that  he  really  wished  her  to  go 
back  to  London. 

Curious  though  it  was,  it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true. 

Then  Wilfred  turned  as  though  to  attack  Richard : 


THE  POSITION  OF  BILLY  267 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  asking  too  much  of  you  to  look 
after  her  on  the  way  back?  Two  hundred  trunks — and 
a  maid  worse  than  useless." 

Richard,  overjoyed,  concealed  his  delight. 

"My  dear  Wilfred— 

Instantly  Wilfred  interrupted: 

"There  you  are!"  he  said  to  Gwendolen.  "Just  as 
I  told  you.  He  won't  be  bothered  with  you.  No  one 
will  be  bothered  with  you." 

"Wilfred,  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  you." 

"Everything  is  the  matter  with  me.  No  one  sym- 
pathises with  me." 

"But,"  interjected  Richard,  "I  was  on  the  point  of 
saying  that  I  should  be  only  too  pleased  to  look  after 
your  wife.  Anything  that  I  can  do  for — your  wife  will 
be  a  great  pleasure  to  me." 

"You  only  say  that  out  of  politeness." 

"My  dear  Wilfred,  I  assure  you ' 

Wilfred  jumped  up. 

"Then  I  take  you  at  your  word!  I  take  you  at  your 
word,  mind  you!  Off  you  go  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
And  I  will  go  now  myself  and  arrange  for  the  seats  in  the 
Cote  d' Azure." 

And  the  extraordinary  man  bustled  off. 

Instinctively  Richard  pressed  her  hand  under  the 
table-cloth. 

"What  a  husband!"  he  said. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  murmured.  "II  a  la  tete,  a  fa. 
We'll  stay  a  night  in  Paris,  won't  we,  dear  ?  We've  never 
been  alone  in  Paris — you  and  I  together!" 

"Where  shall  we  stay?" 

"I  know  a  little  hotel,  a  quiet  little  hotel  in  the  Rue 
Helder.  We  shall  be  absolutely  unknown.  Oh,  darling, 
what  a  stroke  of  luck!  and  the  charm  of  crossing  on  the 


268  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

boat  alone — together.  It  will  be  like  coming  back  from 
our  honeymoon!" 

He  speculated: 

"I  wonder  if  there's  another  man  in  the  world  like 
Wilfred!  Do  you  think  it's  possible  that  he's  setting  a 
trap  for  us?" 

Her  laughter  rippled. 

"Good  heavens,  no!" 

The  Hilary  Term  began  splendidly.  Never  had  the 
table  in  his  chambers  presented  such  a  delightful  spectacle 
as  it  did  on  the  first  day  of  the  term.  It  was  covered 
with  huge  stacks  of  papers,  and  on  the  front  page  of  each 
was  marked  a  large  fee. 

By  the  side  of  the  table  stood  John,  beaming  with 
pride. 

He  told  Richard  that  he  had  taken  a  set  of  chambers 
in  Westminster  which  would  be  ready  for  occupation 
before  Parliament  sat.  They  were  not  expensive,  and, 
beyond  doubt,  they  would  prove  a  prudent  speculation. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  want  to  ask  you,  sir,"  said  John. 
"You  see  you  are  coming  in  for  a  large  Parliamentary 
practice.  If  ever  you  should  think  of  going  into  Parlia- 
ment you  will,  of  course,  have  to  sacrifice  it.  It  would 
seem  a  very  great  loss  of  your  income  to  you  and — me. 
Of  course,  if  you  don't  go  into  Parliament,  sir,  you  have 
no  chance  of  ever  being  Solicitor-General  or  Attorney- 
General,  or  even  of  getting  a  judgeship.  I  should  like 
to  know  if  you  have  any  idea  of  going  into  Parliament." 

Richard  did  not  immediately  reply.  He  had  long 
realised  that  the  time  would  come  when  it  would  be 
necessary  for  him  to  decide  whether  he  would  prefer  a 
colossal  income  at  the  Parliamentary  Bar  and  no  pros- 
pects, except  financial  prospects,  or  a  semi-Parliamentary 


THE  POSITION  OF  BILLY  269 

career  with  a  view  to  becoming  a  law  officer  or  a  judge. 

"It  will  be  time  enough  to  decide  that,  John,  when 
I've  taken  silk." 

"Well,  sir,  I've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  that, 
and — things  being  as  they  are,  and  we  getting  the  fees  we 
do — I  don't  think  the  moment  has  yet  come  for  you  to 
take  silk.  But  should  any  of  the  leading  K.C.'s  at  the 
Parliamentary  Bar  or  on  the  Common  Law  side  die,  or 
should  anything  happen  to  them,  you  might  be  compelled 
to  apply  to  the  Chancellor  at  once.  It  is  the  most  im- 
portant thing  in  the  world  to  know  the  precise  moment 
to  take  silk." 

Richard  smiled. 

"And  you,  of  all  men,  John,  are  the  most  likely  to 
know  the  exact  moment." 

The  clerk's  mouth  slid  from  side  to  side  with  pleasure. 

"I  thank  you,  sir,  and  I'm  quite  sure  that  you  will  act 
on  my  judgment." 

"  I  always  act  on  your  judgment." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I'm  very  pleased  to  hear  it.  Oh, 
there's  one  other  matter,  sir.  A  brief  came  down  from 
Venables,  Hampton  and  Brinstable." 

"Yes?"     He  looked   up  sharply. 

"Well,  sir,  I  sent  it  back." 

"Wasn't  the  fee  good   enough?" 

"The  figures  were  good  enough,  sir,  but " 

"Well?" 

"I  wouldn't  guarantee  that  we  should  ever  get  the 
money,  sir." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?  My  brother-in-law 
is  in  the  firm." 

"I  know  that,  sir,"  answered  John.  "And  their 
clerk  made  a  bit  of  fuss  on  that  account.  But  I  said, 
brother-in-law  or  no  brother-in-law,  we  don't  mix  up 


270  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

family  matters  with  finance.  Those  were  my  words, 
sir." 

"What  sort  of  a  case  was  it  ?" 

"It  was  a  commercial  case,  sir.  As  far  as  I  could 
make  out,  Venables,  Hampton,  and  Brinstable  took  a 
sort  of  personal  interest.  I  think  they  acted  for  the 
plaintiffs." 

Richard  remained  thoughtful. 

"What  is  the  reputation  of  this  firm  in  the  Temple  ?" 

John  rubbed  a  thumb  along  his  fat  chin. 

"They're  hard  to  get  money  from." 

"Yes,  but  that's  true  of  a  great  many  firms.  A  large 
number  of  the  best  firms  pride  themselves  on  paying  their 
office  expenses  out  of  the  interest  on  the  money  they 
have  received  for  counsels'  fees." 

"Yes,  sir,"  explained  John,  "that's  just  it.  The  best 
firms  can  do  that — and  you  know  that  the  money  is  safe, 
Your  principal  is  safe,  and  they  collar  the  interest.  I 
don't  say  it's  a  right  thing  to  do.  But  you  can't  quarrel 
with — the  best  firms.  They  can  make  their  own  terms 
with  most  people.  In  a  year's  time  they  won't  be  able 
to  make  their  own  terms  with  us.  But  when  a  firm  like 
Venables,  Hampton  and  Brinstable  don't  pay  counsels' 
fees  pretty  prompt,  all  barristers'  clerks  fight  shy  of  'em. 
I've  seen  lots  of  no-cure  no-pay  men  appearing  in  court 
for  Venables,  Hampton  and  Brinstable." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

John  nodded. 

At  that  moment  the  junior  clerk  came  in: 

"  Mr.  Brinstable  wishes  to  speak  to  you  on  the  telephone, 
sir.  Can  you  speak  to  him  ?" 

"All  right.     Put  him  through  to  me." 

"Yes,  yes.  I  am  Richard.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  think  it's 
at  all  probable  that  my  clerk  was  in  any  way  insulting  to 


THE  POSITION  OF  BILLY  271 

your  clerk.  .  .  .  He  had  absolute  authority  to  refuse 
briefs.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  the  fee  was  enough.  He  refused 
it" — and  here  Richard  looked  at  John — "because  I'm 
too  busy.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  think  that  is  not  the  real  reason." 
.  .  .  Richard's  eyes  flashed.  "If  you  are  impertinent 
I  shall  ring  off.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  daresay  you  are  worried. 
But  that's  no  excuse.  If  you  want  to  know,  I  have  heard 
that  some  of  your  cases  have  been  conducted  by  no-cure 
no-pay  men.  I  can't  afford  to  earn  that  sort  of  reputation 
myself.  ...  I  would  certainly  be  willing  to  do  you  a 
favour.  But  I  can't  afford  to  do  anybody  a  favour  at 
the  expense  of  my  reputation."  .  .  .  His  eyes  glittered 
angrily.  The  hand  that  was  holding  the  receiver  clenched 
tight.  "That  settles  it."  Immediately  he  rang  off 
and  turned  to  John: 

"Under  no  circumstances  whatever  will  you  take  any 
briefs  from  the  firm  of  Venables,  Hampton  and  Brin- 
stable." 

"Not  even  if  they  bring  a  cheque,  sir?" 

"Not  even  if  they  bring  cash!" 

"I  think  you're  quite  right,  sir." 

"That  will  do." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   ATTITUDE   OF   LADY   MEYVILLE 

THE  result  of  this  conversation  was  a  complete  es- 
trangement between  the  brothers-in-law.  Occasionally 
Richard  saw  Ethel  by  appointment  at  his  flat.  She  never 
complained.  She  tried  to  effect  a  reconciliation  between 
him  and  her  husband.  But  Richard  declined. 

"This  is  not  your  quarrel,  Ethel,"  he  said  one  Sunday 
afternoon  when  she  came  to  see  him.  "You  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  Ever  since  I  met  him  I've  had  great  diffi- 
culty in  tolerating  him.  After  what  he  said  to  me  on 
the  telephone  I  find  it  impossible  to  tolerate  him.  That 
is  the  end  of  the  matter." 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  tears. 

"Dick,  Dick,  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid.  I  feel  as  if 
something  terrible  is  going  to  happen.  Oh,  Richard, 
you  understand  things.  Don't  you  see  that  something 
terrible  is  hanging  over  my  head  ?" 

White-faced  and  trembling  she  looked  at  him.  Her 
eyes  had  grown  larger,  and  terror  stared  out  from  their 
depths. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  trying  to  reassure  her,  "what 
can  you  mean?  What  can  possibly  be  hanging  over 
your  head?" 

"I  don't  know,"  and  again  she  shuddered.  "But  I 
know  that  there's  a  great  deal  going  on  that  I  don't 
understand — Billy  has  changed.  He  is  afraid  of  some- 
thing, too." 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  answered,  "believe  me  that,  if  I 


THE  ATTITUDE  OF  LADY  MEYVILLE     273 

thought  I  could  do  anything  for  Billy,  I  would,  in  spite 
of  what  has  happened." 

Slowly  she  spoke: 

"Richard,  I  don't  believe  he  would  let  you.  He  hates 
you.  Your  success  is  maddening  to  him.  You  know 
that  when  you  were  struggling  he  never  sent  you  a  brief. 
He  never  wanted  you  to  succeed.  I  know  I  ought  not 
to  give  my  husband  away  like  this.  But,  Richard, 
what  can  I  do  ?  I  am  the  most  miserable  woman  in  the 
world." 

"My  dear  Ethel,"  he  said,  and  he  put  his  hands  firmly 
on  her  shoulders.  "I'm  doing  very  well  for  myself  now. 
I'm  making  money — a  good  deal  of  it.  It  is  very  unlikely 
—I'm  afraid — that  I  shall  ever  marry,  and  if  I  do  marry  I 
shall  marry  a  very  rich  woman.  So  you  will  always  be 
provided  for.  If  Billy's  affairs  go  to  the  devil,  I  will 
give  you  an  allowance.  If  you  are  fond  of  Billy,  you 
can  give  him  some  of  it.  If  you're  not  fond  of  Billy, 
you  can  separate  from  him.  So,  if  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst,  you  need  not  worry,  old  girl." 

She  stared  vaguely  about  the  room,  anguish  drawing 
her  eyebrows  together  in  a  point.  She  seemed  to  be 
about  to  speak  again:  to  tell  him  something  or  to  ask 
him  something.  But  instead  of  that  she  buried  her 
head  in  a  paroxysm  of  weeping. 

Suddenly  Richard  was  seized  with  an  idea. 

"Mother  must  come  and  stay  with  you.  Hasn't  she 
suggested  it  ?  " 

Through  the  sobs  the  words  came: 

"No;   I  suggested  it." 

"And   she  refused!"  exclaimed   Richard   in  surprise. 

"Well,  you  know,  mother  is  getting  old.  She  is  not 
as  strong  as  she  was.  I  don't  think  she  is  quite  as  well- 
balanced  as  she  used  to  be,  and  she  is  simply  insane  about 


274  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Montague.  She  spends  most  of  her  time  at  the  theatre. 
She  reads  plays  for  him  there.  And,  in  a  month,  he  is 
putting  up  a  piece  that  he  accepted  on  her  advice!" 

His  jaw  dropped  in  astonishment.  "It  is  a  curious 
thing  how  suddenly  a  woman  becomes  infirm.  After 
fifty-eight  she  nearly  always  degenerates  either  mentally 
or  physically  in  a  fortnight." 

"Dick,  Dick,"  said  Ethel,  with  a  sad  note  in  her  voice. 
"You  know  I  sometimes  think  it  is  all  my  fault.  After 
our  engagement  the  change  began.  But  I  should  just 
love  to  have  her  with  me.  I  shall  be  so  afraid.  It  will 
all  be  so  strange  and  so  cold." 

Again  she  shuddered. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  get  through  it." 

Then  her  wild  eyes  went  to  the  ceiling: 

"And  what  will  he  be  doing  all  the  time?  I  shall  be 
so  anxious  about  him.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  see  the  future 
six  months  ahead!" 

She  sat  erect,  with  tightly  clenched  hands.  Then  she 
walked  slowly,  heavily,  laboriously  to  the  door. 

As  her  four-wheeler  drove  away,  he  hailed  a  hansom 
and  drove  to  Gloucester  Terrace.  There  he  found  his 
mother  surrounded  by  designs  for  theatrical  costumes, 
and  taking  no  little  pride  in  the  fact  that  Montague  had 
consulted  her  on  the  subject. 

Instantly  he  dominated  the  situation.  He  told  her 
that  she  must  stay  with  Ethel.  She  talked  about  the 
first  night  of  the  play.  But  he  would  have  none  of  it. 

At  last,  seeing  that  common  sense  had  ceased  to  appeal 
to  her,  he  stated  deliberately,  even  brutally: 

"Either  you  go  to  stay  with  Ethel  or  you  don't.  If 
you  don't,  I  stop  your  allowance." 

Instantly  her  whole  frame  was  a  mass  of  quivering 
nerves. 


THE  ATTITUDE  OF  LADY  MEYVILLE     275 

"Stop  my  allowance!     You  dare  not!     Oh,  no,  you 
dare  not !     A  son  who  stops  his  mother's  allowance  is — 
But  suddenly  her  mood  changed.     "  A  fig  for  you  and  your 
allowance!     I'm  going  to  make  money.     I'm  going  to 
make  a  great  deal  of  money." 

Good  heavens!  Had  this  crazy  little  woman  been 
embarking  on  speculation  at  her  time  of  life? 

"Mother,"  he  said  in  terror,  "you  don't  mean  to  say 
that  you  are  speculating  without  consulting  me?" 

Her  eyes  flashed   with   indignation. 

"Consulting  my  ungrateful  son!  I  should  think  not, 
indeed." 

"Are  you  speculating?" 

"Never  you  mind.  You've  no  respect  for  your  mother. 
You  never  had  any  regard  for  the  family.  Even  Montague 
says  that  you  are  ashamed  of  the  family." 

"Montague  says  that  ?"  exclaimed  Richard,  bewildered. 

"Montague  says  that,"  she  repeated  triumphantly. 
"  Mrs.  Pegram  says  that.  Mrs.  Bolitho  says  that.  Every- 
body says  that." 

Quietly  he  answered,  "Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  they  agree 
with  what  you  tell  them.  I'm  very  sorry,  mother." 

But  she  would  not  listen  to  him.  She  worked  herself 
into  a  passion  of  rage.  Accusations  against  himself  for 
meanness,  ingratitude,  immorality,  and  other  faults  were 
showered  upon  him.  The  scene  was  too  painful  to  be 
bearable. 

"What  could  be  the  cause  of  it?"  he  asked  himself. 

There  was  a  new  burden  of  care  on  his  shoulders  as 
he  left  the  house. 

He  went  back  to  the  Temple  and  worked  far  into  the 
night. 

On  returning  to  Hay  Hill  he  slept  the  sleep  of  a  tired 
man. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IN  THE   DIVORCE   COURT 

IN  the  early  weeks  of  the  Hilary  term  every  moment 
of  Richard's  time  was  occupied.  Often  he  arrived  at  the 
Temple  at  nine  o'clock,  and  it  was  not  an  unusual  thing 
for  him  to  leave  his  chambers  at  midnight.  If  not  actually 
engaged  in  work,  he  found  that  his  brain  engrossed  itself 
entirely  with  details  of  his  various  cases.  In  no  sense 
was  it  callousness  that  excluded  his  family  from  his 
thoughts.  He  felt,  however,  and  he  felt  very  bitterly, 
his  powerlessness  to  help  Ethel. 

Day  by  day  he  hoped  that  his  mother  or  his  sister,  or 
even  Billy,  would  give  him  some  information  as  to  what 
was  happening  in  Tilney  Street.  But  neither  made  a 
move.  He  consoled  himself  with  the  consciousness  that 
he  had  done  his  best,  that  he  had  advised  the  safest  course; 
more  than  that  he  could  not  do.  He  had  in  his  mind, 
often  at  the  same  time,  the  interests  of  a  dozen  litigants. 
Even  Mrs.  Ainslie  occupied  a  secondary  position.  If 
she  had  not  constantly  telephoned  to  him — much  to  the 
disgust  of  John — it  is  possible  that  she  might  have  slipped 
out  of  his  mind.  For  his  mind  was  so -occupied  that  it 
absolutely  disregarded  the  claims  of  his  heart. 

But  when  he  saw  her  the  power  of  his  heart  swept 
away  all  things. 

He  loved  her  at  these  moments  more  passionately, 
more  violently,  than  before. 

And  she,  in  her  knowledge  of  his  character,  concen- 
trated in  these  moments  the  enthusiasm  of  days  of  neglect. 


IN  THE  DIVORCE  COURT  277 

She  became  apparently  reconciled  to  the  altered  conditions 
which  his  success  had  imposed  upon  him  and  her. 

One  morning  at  ten  o'clock  he  was  at  Essex  Court 
engrossed  in  his  notes  on  a  cause  cekbre — the  case  of 
Cummidge  v.  Cummidge  and  Brostell.  He,  with  a 
junior  who  practised  regularly  in  the  Divorce  Court, 
had  been  briefed  for  the  petitioner.  The  respondent 
and  co-respondent  were  represented  by  eminent  K.C.'s. 
The  case,  which  had  been  going  on  for  two  days,  had 
attracted  a  vast  amount  of  public  interest. 

His  client,  a  man  of  strange  and  unsympathetic  tastes, 
had  incurred  a  considerable  amount  of  odium.  Richard's 
task  was  a  difficult  one.  Everything  depended  upon 
his  cross-examination  of  a  singularly  pretty  and  innocent- 
looking  woman.  On  the  previous  day  she  had  gone 
through  her  examination  in  chief.  When  the  court  sat 
that  morning  it  would  be  Richard's  entirely  unpleasant 
task  to  cross-examine  her.  His  own  sympathies  were 
not  with  his  own  client.  He  was  sorry  for  the  little  woman, 
and  did  not  believe  in  her  guilt.  But  in  his  mind  he  was 
devising  subtle  pitfalls  to  entrap  her  when  John  entered. 

"Can  you  see  Mr.  Barnard  Abrahams?" 

"Who  the  devil  is  Barnard  Abrahams?  I  can't  see 
anybody  now." 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  Mr.  Barnard  Abrahams  is  a 
partner  in  Abrahams,  Noseworthy  and  Abrahams.  I 
think  it  would  be  well,"  he  said  confidently,  "for  you 
to  see  him." 

Richard   made   a  movement  suggestive  of   irritation. 

"I  can't  see  anybody  now — all  right;  show  him  in." 

He  felt  a  feeling  almost  of  satisfaction  in  brushing 
aside  his  notes  intended  to  involve  the  ruin  of  a  woman 
who  had  suffered  much. 

Mr.    Barnard    Abrahams,    a   stout,    respectable    Jew, 


278  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

a  member  of  one  of  the  most  important  and  the  most 
honourable  Anglo- Asiatic  firms  in  London,  entered. 

"Mr.  Meyville,"  he  said,  "I  was  walking  down  to  the 
City,  and,  knowing  that  you  were  an  early  man,  I  thought 
you  would  be  willing  to  waive  ceremony  and  let  me  speak 
to  you  on  an  important  matter." 

Richard  nodded  assent. 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Abrahams;  but  I  have  only  a  few 
minutes  to  spare.  I  have  to  be  in  court —  '  He  took 
out  his  watch  and  clicked  the  cover. 

In  verbal  shorthand  the  eminent  solicitor  explained 
the  case.  A  certain  woman  of  the  name  of  Gabrielle 
Levi,  a  French  Jewess,  had  been  committed  for  trial  at 
the  Old  Bailey.  The  case  would  come  on  at  the  next 
session.  By  profession  she  was  a  pirate  of  the  streets. 
The  man  who  lived  on  her  earnings,  an  Englishman  of 
evil  repute,  a  resident  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Leicester 
Square,  had  been  killed  by  her.  Would  Richard  under- 
take the  defence  ? 

Frankly  he  answered  that  he  would  not. 

"It  might  be  possible,  Mr.  Abrahams,  to  reduce  the 
offence  to  manslaughter.  I  happen  to  have  seen  an 
account  of  the  police  court  proceedings.  The  woman 
hit  the  man  on  the  head  with  a  hatchet.  Previously  she 
had  threatened  him.  Technically  it  is  murder.  It 
would,  I  dare  say,  be  possible  to  reduce  it  to  manslaughter. 
But  I  don't  care  for  the  case." 

Mr.   Abrahams  bent  forward   earnestly. 

"I  think  you  can  secure  an  acquittal.  That's  what 
we  want — an  acquittal." 

"Oh,  my  dear  sir,  out  of  the  question." 

"I  put  it  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Abrahams,  drawing  his 
chair  nearer,  "as  a  possibility.  I  don't  think  anybody 
else  could  get  the  woman  off.  But  I  think  you  could." 


IN  THE  DIVORCE  COURT  279 

Richard  waived  aside  the  expression  of  opinion,  which 
he  believed  to  be  merely  fulsome  flattery. 

But  the  other  persisted. 

"So  far  you  have  got  the  reputation  of  always  being 
on  the  right  side.  A  barrister  in  your  position  is  like  a 
jockey  who  is  lucky  in  his  mounts.  Believe  me,  sir, 
that  jurors  at  the  Old  Bailey  are  very  much  influenced  by 
the  counsel  that  are  retained;  far  more  than  the  jurors 
of  the  King's  Bench.  Besides,  nowadays  an  enormous 
amount  of  a  criminal  trial  is  conducted  in  the  newspapers. 
As  you  know — we — have  the  controlling  interest  in  a 
great  many  journals.  Although  it  is  contempt  of  court 
to  say  anything  prejudicial  to  a  prisoner,  it  is  very  easy 
indeed  to  put  a  vast  amount  of  paragraphs  in  the  prison- 
er's favour.  I  think,"  he  spoke  slowly,  and  he  spoke 
with  an  intention  not  expressed  by  the  actual  words  he 
used,  "I  think  you  would  find  it  to  your  advantage — in 
a  great  many  ways — to  conduct  the  case  and  to  secure 
an  acquittal." 

Richard  looked  at  Mr.  Abrahams.  He  remembered 
the  vast  efforts  employed  always  by  the  Jewish  community 
to  rescue  from  the  toils  of  the  law  any  member  of  the 
Ancient  Faith.  He  recollected  the  case  of  Lipski,  when 
the  Jews  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  bring  about  the 
respite  of  that  murderer's  sentence,  even  while  the  Home 
Secretary  was  walking  about  with  the  man's  confession 
in  his  pocket.  To  his  mind  there  occurred  the  case  of  a 
Hebrew  financier  accused  of  fraudulent  financial  dealings, 
and  the  herculean  labours  on  the  part  of  the  Jews.  In 
his  mind  he  weighed  the  desirability  of  offending  or 
obliging  this  vast  organisation.  Was  he  strong  enough, 
he  wondered. 

Then  Mr.  Abrahams  made  a  false  move. 

"We  will  give  you  any  fee  you  like." 


280  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"That  is  a  subject,"  he  answered,  "for  the  considera- 
tion of  my  clerk — not  for  me.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
don't  want  to  appear  in  the  case." 

This  was  dismissal. 

Mr.  Abrahams  rose. 

"Perhaps,  Mr.  Meyville,  you  will  allow  me  to  fix  up  a 
consultation  with  you  on  the  matter  for  this  afternoon. 
May  I  speak  to  your  clerk  about  it?  I  should  like  to 
bring  with  me  one  or  two  members  of  the  Anglo-Alien 
Purity  Protection  Society.  They  have  taken  a  great 
interest  in  the  woman.  And  I  daresay  they  will  be 
able  to  throw  some  light  on  the  case  which  might  induce 
you  to  interest  yourself  in  this  unfortunate.  Mind  you, 
it  binds  you  to  nothing." 

It  was  now  a  quarter  past  ten.  There  were  only  a 
few  minutes  before  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  go 
into  court. 

"All  right,"  he  answered.  "Settle  the  appointment 
with  my  clerk.  But  I  don't  think  it  will  be  any  use." 

Hastily  he  ran  through  his  notes,  and  then  rushed  over 
to  the  robing-room. 

The  court  was  waiting  when  he  entered,  breathless. 

Immediately  on  his  legs,  he  began  the  cross-examin- 
ation of  Mrs.  Cummidge.  A  delicate  little  woman  with 
a  china-white  face  and  large,  innocent  blue  eyes,  she 
stared  almost  sweetly  at  him.  He  was  so  handsome, 
so  courteous,  that  she  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was 
his  duty  with  a  strong,  cruel  hand  to  tear  out  the  secrets 
of  her  heart. 

He  spoke  to  her  as  a  friend,  almost  as  an  admirer. 

To  the  thinking  of  this  innocent  little  woman  he  was 
more  like  a  kindly  and  expert  surgeon  than  a  hired  enemy, 
subsidised — at  a  huge  price — to  do  her  the  most  terrible 
wrong. 


IN  THE  DIVORCE  COURT  281 

He  showed  her  letters,  asked  if  she  had  written  them; 
received  her  admissions  as  though  applauding  them. 
He  asked  her  questions  as  to  her  meetings  with  "Duggie" 
Brostell,  and  fixed  with  consummate  care  the  dates  of  cer- 
tain events.  So  delicately,  indeed,  did  he  put  his  questions 
that  even  in  open  court,  in  the  eyes  of  greedily  curious 
men  and  cynical,  unsexed  women,  she  scarcely  felt  any 
indelicacy  in  revealing  the  most  intimate  details  of  her 
life. 

Suddenly  he  put  a  sort  of  consolidated  question: 

"You  have  called  this  person  such  and  such  names 
in  your  letters;  you  have  said  such  and  such  things  about 
yourself  in  your  letters.  He  has  called  you  this  and 
that  in  his  letters.  He  has  called  himself  by  various  pet 
names  in  his  letters.  You  have  seen  him  alone  at  this 
place  and  that  place  for  so  many  hours  at  a  time.  Do 
you  deny" — now  his  words  came  fiercely — "that  you 
were  his  mistress?" 

A  curious  smile  played  about  the  effeminate  face  of 
the  curly,  golden-haired,  over-dressed  little  co-respon- 
dent. 

If  the  judge  of  the  Divorce  Court  had  any  knowledge 
of  life  outside  of  the  Divorce  Court,  that  smile  would 
have  convinced  him  of  the  woman's  innocence,  so  effemi- 
nate and  cynical  and  vile  was  it.  It  was  a  smile  of  ill- 
favoured,  unearned  pride. 

The  poor  woman  in  the  witness-box  saw  that  smile. 
It  struck  horror  into  her  heart. 

Indignantly  she  answered:     "Never." 

Contemptuously  Richard's  lips  curled  as  he  looked 
down  at  the  effeminate  mannikin  in  front  of  him.  Theatri- 
cally, he  recognised  in  an  instant  that  the  expression  of 
his  lips  should  not  be  wasted. 

Without  relaxing  a  nerve,  he  turned  on  the  witness. 


282  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

The  look  on  that  handsome,  just  man's  face  brought 
her  defence  tripping  to  her  lips. 

"Why,  he  was  more  like  a  girl  friend  than  anything 
else!" 

"That  is  your  answer,"  said  Richard  sternly.  "That 
is  what  you  ask  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  to  believe." 

Instantly  the  frightened  woman  in  the  witness-box 
felt  conscious  of  her  peril.  From  the  mouth  of  the  kindly 
counsel  with  the  silver  tongue  had  suddenly  shot  the  fangs 
of  a  snake. 

Shivering  with  fear,  she  felt  that  the  struggle  was  at 
an  end.  She  had  no  further  strength.  Like  a  white 
rabbit  fascinated  by  a  huge  python,  she  looked  for  a  few 
seconds  into  Richard's  face,  heedless  of  her  own  counsel, 
who  was  preparing  to  re-examine  her.  Then  her  self- 
possession  left  her.  She  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 
Powerless  to  control  herself,  she  burst  into  a  paroxysm 
of  weeping.  Otherwise  there  was  a  complete  silence  in 
the  Court,  except  for  the  drawing  of  breath  indicative  that 
someone  had  done  a  monstrous  thing. 

Richard  heard  a  half-stifled  "Oh!"  in  a  woman's 
voice. 

He  turned  round. 

Three  rows  behind  him  he  saw  Gwen. 

Instantly  he  scribbled  a  note,  turned  to  a  briefless 
junior  behind  him,  and  said: 

"Pass  that  to  the  lady  in  the  big  black  hat." 

Gwen  shot  a  glance  almost  of  indignant  hatred  at  him. 
It  fell  harmless  against  the  two  tails  of  his  wig.  She  was 
in  arms  for  her  sex.  She  read  the  note,  and  her  eyes 
shot  back  "I  won't." 

He  had  asked  her  to  leave  the  court. 

The  body  of  the  woman  in  the  witness-box  continued 
to  heave  with  sharp  shudders. 


IN  THE  DIVORCE  COURT  £83 

Richard  saw  that  a  further  advantage  could  be  gained. 

"I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon,"  he  said,  "but  when 
the  witness  has  composed  herself  I  have  one  or  two ' 

At  these  words  from  the  now  hateful  voice,  the  woman's 
white,  tear-stained  face  raised  itself  over  the  rail  of  the 
box  in  sheer  cold  fear. 

"I  have  two  or  three  more  very  important  questions 
to  ask  this  witness."  He  gave  every  word  its  maximum 
of  weight.  "Of  course,  my  lord,  I  am  anxious  that  the 
lady  should  have  every  opportunity  to  compose  herself. 
Indeed,  I  should  not  like  to  put  these  questions  to  the 
witness — until  she  is  completely  restored." 

A  wave  of  terror  passed  over  the  wan,  quivering  face. 
What  could  he  ask  now?  What  could  be  worse  than 
what  had  happened  ?  She  felt  that  she  was  utterly 
disgraced  already.  Almost  in  an  instant  she  had  been 
dragged  from  a  pinnacle  of  innocence  and  plunged  into 
a  morass  of  guilt.  After  the  evidence  of  the  letters, 
with  the  evidence  of  the  meetings,  what  judge  and  jury 
could  believe  her  innocent?  It  was  futile  to  continue 
the  fight. 

The  Mephistopheles  in  wig  and  gown  had  by  some 
forensic  trickery  prepared  more  crushing  blows.  Why 
should  she  wait  for  further  dishonour?  He  had  broken 
her  heart.  He  had  ruined  her  life.  That  must  be  the 
end. 

A  wild,  appealing  glance  shot  from  her  eyes  to  her 
counsel,  a  kindly  K.  C.,  who,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  had  spent  the  greater  portion  of  his  life  in  the  Divorce 
Court,  did  not  outside  its  walls  divide  all  humanity  into 
possible  petitioners,  respondents,  and  co-respondents. 

By  the  light  of  his  brief  he  firmly  believed  his  client 
guilty. 

In  him  there  was  no  help :  his  face  was  barren  of  comfort. 


284  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Courage  came  to  the  little  woman,  the  courage  that 
comes  to  all  creatures  in  the  moment  of  death.  Her  voice 
was  only  just  audible. 

"My  lord — I  won't — I  can't  answer  any  more  ques- 
tions." 

The  judge  gravely,  and  yet  almost  tenderly,  addressed 
her: 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  quite  understand  what 
that  means?" 

Her  eyes,  wide-open,  innocent  eyes,  stared  up  at  him. 

"I  am  afraid  I  do,  my  lord.  But  I  can't  go  on.  I 
can't  bear  it  any  longer." 

She  knew  that  the  jury  did  not  move  in  the  society  of 
persons  of  the  "Duggie"  type,  and  would  never  under- 
stand the  relation  in  which  they  stood  to  women. 

"What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Indermere?"  said  the  judge, 
turning  to  her  counsel. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  Mr.  Indermere  could  do 
nothing  in  the  matter. 

The  perfumed  "Duggie,"  a  pink  flush  of  pride  on 
either  cheek  as  he  brushed  the  powder  from  his  eye- 
lashes, communicated  with  his  counsel.  A  few  minutes' 
wrangling,  and  a  decree  nisi  was  pronounced. 

John  tapped  Richard  on  the  shoulder,  and  hurried 
him  into  another  court. 

A  vulgarian,  with  a  pimple-studded  face  and  a  thick 
moustache,  laughed  to  a  friend: 

"I'm  damned  glad  that  I've  got  rid  of  that  damned 
woman.  Come  and  have  a  bottle,  my  boy."  The 
petitioner  was  in  fine  fettle. 

The  golden-haired  youth  went  out  of  the  court  with 
a  winsome,  proud,  and  wobbly  walk. 

"Women  always  give  one  away,"  he  said  in  a  shrill 
voice  to  his  counsel. 


IN  THE  DIVORCE  COURT  285 

In  the  box,  her  head  buried  in  her  hands,  the  innocent 
woman  sobbed  her  soul  out  until  the  usher  gently  led 
her  away. 

Gwendolen  drove  home  to  Green  Street,  well-nigh 
hating  Richard  in  her  heart. 

Until  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  Richard,  in  Court  7, 
K.B.D.,  gave  no  thought  to  anything  save  and  except 
the  manner  in  which  iron  ore  was  shipped  at  Bilbao  to 
the  English  consumers  at  Newcastle. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


A        T» 

A.    13. 

THREE  times  between  four  and  five  did  Gwendolen 
telephone  to  the  Temple.  On  each  occasion  John  told 
her  that  Richard  was  engaged  at  a  conference  or  a  con- 
sultation. 

She  had  begun  to  dislike  John. 

At  five  o'clock  Mr.  Abrahams  appeared  by  appoint- 
ment. 

With  him  were  two  members  of  the  Anglo- Alien  Purity 
Protection  Society.  As  such  they  were  introduced  by 
the  solicitor. 

Richard,  looking  up  from  the  papers  on  his  table,  saw 
with  surprise  that  one  was  the  manager  of  the  St.  Alphonse 
Hotel. 

Amusement  concealed  his  annoyance.  Astonishment 
at  the  far-reaching  freemasonry  of  aliens  in  England 
succeeded.  He  was  completely  in  their  hands.  He  did 
not  trouble  the  Committee  to  state  their  reasons  for  in- 
ducing him  to  defend  Gabrielle  Levi.  He  undertook  her 
defence. 

With  a  touch  of  sarcasm,  directed  at  the  manager  of  the 
St.  Alphonse,  as  they  were  leaving  the  room,  he  said: 

"I  am  sure  that  not  only  Anglo- Alien,  but  English 
purity  is  safe  in  your  hands." 

Shortly  after  their  departure  Jack  Nicholl,  the  tall, 
keen-faced  Treasury  counsel,  whose  chambers  were 
above  Richard's,  came  briskly  in. 

This  eloquent,  gaunt  man,  with  a  huge  nose  and  a 


PROPOSED   PROSECUTION  OF  "A.   B."     287 

drawn,  ascetic  face,  one  of  the  most  popular  men  at  the 
Bar,  and  certainly,  in  spite  of  his  sinister  appearance, 
one  of  the  most  kind-hearted,  held  papers  in  his  hand. 

"My  dear  Dick,"  he  said,  "I'm  awfully  busy  just  now. 
I  shall  be  working  upstairs  till  late  to-night  on  other  things. 
Would  you  mind  looking  through  these  papers  for  me  ? 
That  there  ought  to  be  a  conviction  I'm  convinced.  It 
would  succeed.  But  I  haven't  actually  had  time  to 
look  carefully  at  the  papers.  If,  by  any  chance,  you  see 
a  flaw  anywhere,  let  me  know,  will  you?  Of  course, 
you're  a  busy  man,  too,  but  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged 
if  you  will  do  me  this  favour." 

"My  dear  Jack,  have  you  ever  come  across  anybody 
yet  who  was  not  anxious  to  do  you  a  favour?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Ke  smiled.  "I've  often  thought,  when 
leaving  the  Old  Bailey,  that  some  prisoners'  friends 
were  on  the  point  of  breaking  my  head." 

He  put  the  papers  on  the  table. 

"It's  the  usual  affair — solicitor — embezzlement — you 
know.  If  it's  all  right,  we  shall  apply  for  a  warrant 
to-morrow  morning." 

And  he  strode  out. 

Richard  readily  put  aside  his  own  work  in  order  to 
accede  to  the  kindly  man's  request.  Often  and  often 
had  Nicholl  done  him  a  good  turn,  given  him  advice,  and, 
what  was  more  to  him  at  one  time,  encouragement.  And 
it  pleased  him  immensely  to  do  him  this  slight  service. 

He  turned  to  the  papers. 

On  the  outside  sheet  was: 

IN    THE    MATTER    OF    THE    PROPOSED    PROSECUTION 

OF  "A.B." 

He  undid  the  tape. 

The  solicitor,  "A.B.,"  whoever  he  was,  had  clearly 
embezzled  trust  moneys.  "A.B.,"  whoever  he  was, 


288  THE  OTHER  MAX'S  WIFE 

apparently  lived  beyond  his  means.  The  story  was 
almost  common  form. 

"Damn  it,"  said  Richard  to  himself,  "these  solicitors 
are  getting  worse  and  worse.  Before  long,  the  whole 
lot  of  them  will  be  in  jail." 

He  became  indignant  with  "A.B.,"  whoever  he  was. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  absolute  baseness  of  his  pro- 
ceedings. In  the  nature  of  things,  the  widow,  the  friend- 
less, the  defenceless,  all  those,  in  fact,  who  are  common 
objects  of  sympathy  and  respect  by  other  profes- 
sions, are  the  orthodox  prey  for  the  cupidity  of  the 
solicitor. 

Suddenly  his  pencil  dropped.  Beads  of  perspiration 
came  out  on  his  forehead.  He  took  his  thumb  and 
drew  it  along  a  line  of  the  typewritten  brief  as  though 
to  verify  it,  as  though  to  convince  himself  that  what  he 
saw  there  was  actually  written  and  not  a  fiction  of  his 
brain.  And  yet  there  were  the  letters.  There  was  the 
date. 

The  thing  was  unmistakable. 

"Terrible!  Terrible!"  he  murmured,  as  he  rose 
from  the  table  and  walked  with  his  head  bent,  up  and 
down  the  room.  Three  times — four  times — he  paced 
up  and  down,  and  then  stared  into  the  glass  with  unseeing 
eyes.  He  rattled  his  keys  and  his  money  in  his  pocket, 
and  then,  a  limp,  hopeless  man,  threw  himself  into  an 
arm-chair. 

He  stared  straight  before  him.  After  five  minutes 
he  rose  suddenly  from  the  chair,  walked  back  to  the 
table,  and  looked  fixedly  at  the  brief. 

"Married  on  the  29th. of  July  last  year." 

There  it  was.     There  was  the  clue. 

"A.B."  was  Billy  Brinstable. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it. 


PROPOSED  PROSECUTION  OF  "A.  B."     289 

Without  reading  to  the  end  of  the  brief  he  began  it 
again. 

With  every  nerve  of  his  alert  brain  he  sought  a  loophole. 

He  reached  the  last  page  and  dropped  the  papers  with 
limp  hands.  "Seven  years." 

Then  he  rose  again  and  paced  the  room. 

"Seven  years,  that's  what  he'll  get,  and  no  power  on 
earth  can  stop  it.  Good  God!  And  my  sister,  and  the 
child!" 

The  door  opened,  and  John  entered. 

"Can  you  speak  to  Mrs.  Ainslie  on  the  telephone?" 

He  roared,  "Ainslie!  Confound  it,  no!  I  can't 
speak  to  anybody." 

The  door  closed. 

For  several  minutes  he  could  say  nothing  to  himself 
but  "Seven  years!  Seven  years!" 

Suddenly  he  seized  the  papers,  tied  them  up  with  the 
tape,  and  rushed  up  to  Nicholl's  room.  Imperatively 
he  flung  the  brief  on  the  gaunt  man's  table. 

"You've  read  'em?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I've  read  'em.     It's  a  dead  case,  isn't  it?" 

"Dead.     What  do  you  think  he'll  get?" 

"It's  a  bad  case.  Besides,  the  prosecutor,  a  man 
called  Wagstaffe,  is  very  bitter.  He's  a  rich  man  with  a 
pretty  wife — a  Jewess,  I  think.  I  imagine  there's  some- 
thing behind  all  this — something  to  do  with  the  wife." 

Richard,  at  the  word  "Wagstaffe,"  put  his  hand  to 
his  forehead,  searching  to  locate  that  unusual  name 
somewhere  in  his  memory.  Suddenly  he  fixed  it.  The 
pretty  little  Jewess  with  the  flaxen  hair  whom  he  had 
seen,  a  sorrowful  spectator  at  Billy's  wedding,  was  a 
Mrs.  Wagstaffe. 

Now  he  understood. 

"What  do  you  think  he'll  get?"  he  repeated. 


290  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  answered  Jack,  "I  think 
it's  rather  a  vindictive  prosecution.  I  should  say  ten 
years." 

"Good  heavens!" 

The  alert  eyes  of  the  Treasury  counsel  looked  up  at 
him: 

"Do  you  know  the  man?" 

"Jack,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook  as  he  stood  with 
the  electric  light  full  on  his  face,  'A.B.'  is  my  brother- 
in-law." 

"The  devil!"  exclaimed  Nicholl,  rising  to  his  full 
height.  "My  dear  chap,  I'm.  ..." 

Though  the  words  of  sympathy  failed  him,  yet  there 
was  sincere  sympathy  in  his  voice.  Though  he  spent  his 
entire  life  in  an  atmosphere  of  crime,  in  an  atmosphere 
of  sorrow,  of  panic,  and  of  fear,  there  were  many  moments 
when  his  heart  bled  for  the  monstrous  criminals  that  he 
sent  to  their  long  home.  In  his  vast  experience  it  had 
often  been  necessary  for  him  to  defend  personal  friends, 
sometimes  sons  of  personal  friends — soul-shattering  ex- 
periences, these. 

"And  you  say,  Jack,  that  you  think  it's  a  vindictive 
prosecution  ?  You'll  do  your  best,  won't  you  ?  You'll 
do  your  best  to  let  him  down — lightly?" 

Firmly,   the   other   answered: 

"I  shall  retire  from  the  case.  My  dear  Dick,  you're 
a  friend  of  mine.  I  can't  possibly  prosecute  your  brother- 
in-law." 

With  a  long,  thin  hand  he  stroked  his  forehead  as  he 
added : 

"There  are  moments  when  our  profession  is  too — 
hideous." 

"But  I  ask  you  to.  It's  much  better  that  you  should. 
It's  much  better  that  you  should  do  it  than  anybody 


PROPOSED  PROSECUTION  OF  "A.  B."     291 

else.     You  could — well,  you  could  minimise — the  thing." 

"No!"  Nicholl  replied.  "You  see  it's  sure  to  leak 
out  that  he's  a  relative  of  yours.  Thank  God,  we've 
got  some  esprit  de  corps  at  the  Bar.  Somebody  else 
must  do  it.  Whoever  it  is — will  do  what  he  can.  The 
judge  will  probably  let  him  down  lightly — as  lightly  as 
possible." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  lightly?  What  do  you  mean 
by  that?" 

"Well,  I'm  afraid  that  in  the  present  state  of  public 
opinion  it  can't  be  less  than  seven  years.  I'm  awfully 
sorry.  A  good  chap,  was  he?" 

The  past  tense  sounded   horrible  to  Richard. 

"No,"  he  answered  grimly,  "he's  not.  But  it's  hell 
for  my  sister — and  there  are  other  things." 

Nicholl  took  his  hand  and  shook  it  firmly. 

Neither  spoke. 

The  grip  of  that  gaunt  man's  hand,  the  hand  of  a  man 
whom  he  considered  great,  not  only  as  a  Criminal  Court 
counsel,  but  great  as  a  human  being,  brought  tears  to 
his  eyes  as  he  closed  the  door. 

For  nearly  an  hour  he  remained  in  his  room  wrapped 
in  thought.  Then  he  told  John  that  he  could  leave. 

Silence  settled  down  upon  the  Temple.  An  occasional 
footfall  sounded  on  the  flagstones  of  Essex  Court.  London 
throbbed  and  murmured  in  the  distance.  Heedless  of 
the  time,  he  sat  on.  Now  and  again  he  would  rise  and 
pace  the  room,  his  hand  gripping  his  chin. 

Suddenly  he  went  to  the  telephone.  There  were  no 
tones  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke. 

"Is  that  you,  Billy?  ...  I'm  Richard.  .  .  .  Never 
mind  about  that.  This  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  .  .  . 
What's  that?  .  .  .  You  dropped  the  receiver?  Listen. 
Answer  my  questions,  and  do  precisely  as  I  tell  you.  .  .  . 


292  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Pull  yourself  together  and  listen.  Where's  Ethel  ?  ...  Is 
there  anybody  with  her  in  the  house?  A  nurse  and  the 
doctor  are  there?  .  .  .  Go  out,  yourself,  taking  with 
you  your  latchkey  in  an  envelope  addressed  to  me  at 
the  New  University  Club.  Take  it  to  the  District  Mes- 
senger Boy's  office  in  South  Audley  Street  and  send  it 
from  there.  .  .  .  It's  no  use  asking  what  this  means.  .  .  . 
What's  the  time  by  your  watch?  ...  I  make  it  8.30. 
You're  three  minutes  slow.  Put  your  watch  on.  .  .  .  All 
right.  By  each  of  our  watches  the  time  is  8.30.  At  eleven 
o'clock  to  the  minute  I  shall  open  your  front  door.  You'll 
see  that  there's  nobody  about.  ...  I  shall  go  straight 
to  your  study.  You'll  be  there  waiting  for  me.  .  .  .  It's 
no  good  asking  any  questions.  What  I'm  doing,  I'm 
doing  for  the  sake  of  your  honour,  for  the  sake  of  my 
sister's  honour,  for  the  sake  of  the  child's  honour." 

Then  he  rang  off. 

He  put  on  a  thick  coat, went  to  the  drawer  in  his  writ- 
ing-table, took  out  something  heavy  and  glittering,  and  put 
it  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  shut  up  his  chambers  and 
walked  slowly  towards  his  club.  The  two  or  three  men 
who  greeted  him  on  the  way  he  did  not  see.  On  his  arrival 
he  took  a  misshapen,  clumsy  envelope  from  the  hall 
porter,  and,  dinnerless,  walked  on  to  Green  Street 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   ANNIVERSARY 

• 

WHEN  he  found  himself  outside  Gwen's  door,  he  was 
suddenly  confronted  by  the  question,  "What  have  I 
come  here  for?"  He  had  stopped  automatically  at  the 
porch.  He  had  no  idea  whether  she  was  in  or  out.  He 
scarcely  remembered  the  streets  through  which  he  had 
passed  since  leaving  the  club.  The  sole  solution  of  his 
presence  on  the  steps  seemed  to  him  that  Gwendolen 
was  his  natural  refuge  in  time  of  sorrow.  His  nerves  were 
strung  to  the  highest  pitch.  He  felt  that,  unless  he  was 
soothed  until  eleven  o'clock,  his  agony  would  be  intolerable. 

Though  he  had  no  intention  of  telling  her  anything 
about  the  critical  position  of  Billy  Brinstable,  he  knew 
that  her  company  would  have  a  sedative  effect  upon  his 
whirling  brain.  If  he  could  induce  her  to  let  him  lie 
down  on  the  sofa  whilst  she  played  music — soft,  dreamy 
music — all  would  be  comparatively  well. 

Supposing  she  were  out !  He  shuddered  at  the  thought. 
Then  he  would  pace  up  and  down  the  streets  till  eleven 
o'clock.  He  was  convinced  that  no  society  but  hers 
would  be  tolerable  to  him. 

Whilst  he  was  waiting  for  an  answer  to  the  bell,  he 
trembled  at  the  possibility  that  she  might  be  out,  or  that 
she  might  be  alone  with  Wilfred — Wilfred  in  one  of  his 
garrulous  moods. 

It  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  he  heard  Younghus- 
band's  answer  that  Mrs.  Ainslie  was  in. 

"Is  she  alone?"  lie  asked. 


294.  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Yes,  sir;  Mr.  Ainslie  went  out  immediately  after 
dinner." 

He  found  Gwendolen  in  the  library.  She  was  sitting 
in  a  straight-backed  red  leather  chair.  There  was  no 
book  by  her  side,  no  newspaper  within  her  reach.  Her 
thoughts  absorbed  her. 

On  the  announcement  made  by  the  butler,  she  turned 
hastily  towards  the  door. 

Richard  caught  her  glance  before  it  reached  him. 
It  was  unmistakably  a  glance  of  annoyance,  almost 
of  dislike.  Then  when  her  eyes  perceived  him,  the 
expression  changed  to — something  he  had  never  seen 
before. 

The  door  closed. 

"Richard,"  she  cried,  and  rushed  towards  him,  "what's 
the  matter?" 

She  stared  at  his  haggard  face,  an  unhealthy  pallor  be- 
neath the  skin.  Lines  that  had  hitherto  been  merely  in- 
dicated were  now  deep  furrows;  they  told  of  stark  deter- 
mination; they  told  of  acute  grief. 

He  stood  as  one  dazed  by  the  light,  wearing  his  top  coat 
and  carrying  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

Slowly,  with  expressionless  eyes,  he  moved  to  the  chair 
which  Gwendolen  had  vacated,  and  dropped  into  it. 
His  hat  fell  on  the  floor;  his  arms  sank  on  to  the  arms  of 
the  chair. 

And  then  he  looked  up  at  her;  in  his  eyes  an  obvious 
craving  for  sympathy. 

She  stood  above  him,  bewildered.  His  eyes  asked  for 
tenderness.  They  pleaded  for  consolation. 

She  spoke  no  word. 

Eye  to  eye,  they  stared  at  one  another. 

Through  her  brain  flashed  a  contrast  between  the  ag- 
gressive cross-examiner  who — for  money — had  ruined  a 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  295 

woman's  life — a  man  she  hated — and  the  limp,  sorrow- 
stricken  sufferer  whom  she  loved. 

In  his  mind  was  only  one  thought.  "Why  did  she  not 
take  him  in  her  arms  ?"  If  she  had  taken  him  in  her  arms 
at  that  moment  she  would  have  witnessed  a  sight  the  most 
terrible  in  the  world:  the  sight  of  a  strong  man  when  he 
weeps.  If  she  had  thrown  her  arms  about  him,  as  her 
instinct  told  her  to  do,  he  would  have  revealed  to  her  the 
secret  chamber  of  his  soul.  She  would  have  mrde  him 
more  hers  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  He  would  have 
belonged  more  completely  to  her  than  it  is  often  given  for  r. 
man  to  belong  to  a  woman.  He  was  in  the  depths  of 
sorrow;  the  deep  black  depths  from  which  we  can  see  no 
egress.  Had  she  given  him  comfort  then,  she  would  have 
been  in  the  eyes  of  his  soul  an  angel  of  mercy  until  his 
death.  He  was  suffering  to  the  extreme  limit  of  sorrow. 
He  had  the  power  of  suffering  to  an  extent  that  is  rarely 
found  in  men.  Most  of  us  can  scale  the  highest  pinnacles 
of  joy,  but  there  are  not  many  natures  capable  of  being 
dragged  down  to  the  lowest  depths  of  woe.  It  is  a  fine- 
spun character  that  can  be  miserable  to  this  degree. 

Still  she  stood  above  him  and  made  no  movement.  Al- 
most callously  she  regarded  the  pathos  in  his  eyes.  She 
was  in  arms  for  her  sex.  Hers  was  the  battle  of  the  inno- 
cent little  woman  who  had  cowered  in  the  witness-box  that 
morning. 

It  seemed  to  her,  who  had  brooded  upon  the  cruelty,  up- 
on the  injustice  of  the  man  she  loved  ever  since  she  had 
seen  the  hideous  curl  of  contempt  upon  his  lips,  that  he  had 
realised  the  turpitude  of  his  conduct;  that  he,  who  had 
inflicted  so  dire  a  wrong  upon  a  woman,  now  felt  himself 
unworthy  of  a  woman's  love.  She  herself  had  despised 
her  lover  in  her  heart.  She  had  gone  secretly  to  see  him 
at  the  work  that  was  making  him  famous — and  she  had 


296  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

seen — oh,  God!  Hundreds  of  bitter  phrases  had  sprung 
to  her  mind  wherewith  to  taunt  him  with  his  cruelty  to 
womanhood.  The  sight  of  his  dejection  by  no  means 
mollified  her.  It  appeared  to  her  right  that  one  who  had 
behaved  so  abominably  should  suffer  in  no  slight  measure. 
Here,  indeed,  was  justice — in  that  a  man  who  had  ruined 
a  woman's  reputation  should  himself  be  a  limp,  haggard 
shadow  of  his  former  self. 

Coldly,  at  length,  she  spoke 

"Well?" 

Deep  in  his  throat  he  murmured:  "Kiss  me,  Gwen! 
For  heaven's  sake,  kiss  me!  You  don't  know  what  I've 
suffered — what  I  am  suffering !  Say  nothing,  but  kiss  me." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  have  suffered,"  she  answered 
— she  spoke  slowly,  firmly,  with  no  note  of  tenderness  in 
her  voice — "but  all  you  suffer — all  you  may  suffer — you 
deserve." 

Instantly  he  was  on  his  defence. 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  cried.  "I've  deserved  nothing.  I've 
done  my  best!" 

"This  morning,"  she  said,  "I  hated  you.  I'm  not  sure 
that  I  don't  hate  you  now." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"How  could  you  ?  How  could  you  ?  That  innocent 
little  woman!" 

Again  his  eyebrows  were  notes  of  interrogation. 

"That  woman  in  the  witness-box!  That  innocent 
woman.  You  know  she  was  innocent!  Now" — her  words 
came  quickly — "you  know  exactly  what  occurred  in  that 
case.  You  know  the  type  of  man  the  co-respondent  was 
— talk,  talk,  talk,  that's  all.  That  class  of  man  talks  to 
women  as  women  talk  to  one  another — of  dress,  of  scandal, 
even  of  babies,  at  a  pinch.  It's  as  clear  as  the  day  that  the 
woman  loved  him.  She  wrote  those  letters  because  she 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  297 

loved  him,  and  then  she  found  out — what  the  little  wretch 
was.  And  you — you,  by  means  of  tricks  and  traps  have 
proved  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  that  this — thing  was  her 
lover !  Do  you  see  what  you've  done,  Richard  ?  What  do 
you  think  that  woman  is  suffering  now?  How  she  must 
hate  you!  To  think  that  I've  kissed  your  lips!  To  think 
that  I  have  believed  you  mine!  To  know  that — as  God  sees 
me,  I  believe  that  you  would  let  yourself  be  retained  by 
Wilfred  to  prove  my  infidelity." 

He  made  no  attempt  to  protect  himself  against  her  indig- 
nation. He  was  in  no  mood  to  fight  for  himself.  He 
yearned  for  tenderness,  and,  instead,  he  only  found  griev- 
ous accusations.  To  him  it  seemed  that  the  incidents  in 
the  Divorce  Court  had  happened  many  years  ago.  The 
case  of  Mrs.  Cummidge  was  of  no  more  interest  to  him 
than  had  been  the  case  in  which  the  manager  of  St. 
Alphonse  had  brought  about  a  miscarriage  of  justice. 
These  things  were  past. 

Now  there  was  an  entr'acte  in  his  life.  The  curtain 
would  rise  at  eleven  o'clock.  Till  then  he  wanted  quiet,  he 
wanted  peace.  Above  all,  he  wanted  sympathy  for  him- 
self. His  shattered  nerves  would  not  allow  him  to  listen 
to  Gwen's  tirade.  Her  attitude,  which  he  had  not  taken 
the  pains  to  analyse,  had  come  as  a  shock.  Not  so  much 
was  he  annoyed  at  her  lack  of  understanding  as  he  was  un- 
satisfied in  his  quest  for  sympathy.  He  had  come  to  her 
house  as  to  a  haven  of  rest  before  grappling  with  a  crisis 
that  required  his  entire  stock  of  fortitude.  If  he  could 
not  obtain  encouragement  from  her,  he  could  obtain  it  no- 
where. He  would  walk  about  the  streets. 

Suddenly  he  rose. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  cried.  "You're  not 
going?" 

Drawing  a  deep  breath,  he  said : 


298  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Yes,  it  is  now  five  minutes  past  ten."  To  himself 
he  said :  "  Fifty-five  minutes  more. " 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  going,"  he  answered. 

"No,  no,  not  like  that!  Oh,  Dick,  Dick,  what's  the 
matter  ?  Something  terrible's  the  matter.  I  don't  believe 
it's  all  remorse." 

He  caught  the  word  "remorse." 

"Remorse?    What  for?" 

"For  your — murder  of  that  little  woman  this  morning!" 

"Was  it  only  this  morning?"  he  answered.  "It  seems 
to  me  weeks  and  weeks  ago.  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it." 

She  put  her  hands  on  the  thick  cloth  of  his  overcoat  and 
stared  into  his  face. 

"Do  you  think  that  she'll  ever  forget  this  morning  ?  Do 
you  think  that  she'll  ever  forget  your  face  and  your  cruel 
smile  ?" 

With  her  tender,  white  fingers  she  traced  the  curves  of 
his  mouth. 

"There  are  those  lips.     No,  no!     They're  not  as  they 
used  to  be.     They  seem  to  be  cruelly  curled  even  now. 
There  is  a  deep  line  at  each  corner — a  line  that  I  have 
never  been  able  to  kiss  away.     And  sometimes,  Richard, 
I  thought  you  had  a  mouth  like  a  Cupid's  bow;  almost 
too  beautiful  for  a  man,  it  seemed.     And  to  think"- 
she  hesitated — "and  to  think!  oh,  to  think  that  you  could 
look  like  that!   I  suppose  that  there  is  in  each  of  us  some- 
thing that  the  other  does  not  suspect.     And  yet  I  fancied 
that  there  was  nothing  about  you  that  was  secret  from  me. 
I  thought  that  I  knew  every  line  and  every  curve  of  you. 
And — I  don't  know  the  worst  part  of  you.    There  is  a  depth 
of  cruelty  that  I  hadn't  fathomed — that  I  hadn't  dreamed 
of.     After  this  morning  I  shall  always  be    frightened    of 
you." 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  299 

Suddenly  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  horror. 

She  recoiled  from  him. 

He  was  standing  gaunt  and  sinister. 

It  seemed  that  all  his  face  had  shrunken  into  his  profile. 
His  eyes  appeared  to  have  sunk  deep  into  his  head  and 
to  glare  forth  doom.  It  was  as  though  there  was  a  sheet 
of  metal  behind  his  eyes.  His  hands  were  thrust  into 
the  pockets  of  his  coat,  and  he  was  looking — right  through 
her — at  something  that  was  dying  in  agony  at  his  glance. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  she  stared  at  him  as  he  stood 
motionless.  It  was  not  apparent  to  her  that  he  realised 
she  was  in  the  room. 

Slowly,  with  heavy  steps,  he  walked  towards  the  door. 

She  sprang  on  him. 

"Come  back!" 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  It  is  twenty  minutes  past  ten." 

"Why  should  you  always  be  looking  at  the  time?" 

Absently  he  answered: 

"Forty  minutes  more." 

"Come  here,  Richard;  I  can't  stand  this  horror.  Be 
yourself.  What's  the  matter?" 

She  hesitated  for  an  instant,  and  then  she  seized  him 
by  the  shoulders.  She  was  surprised  to  find  with  what 
ease  she  pulled  him  to  the  sofa. 

"Take  off  your  coat!"  she  ordered. 

He  stood  up,  and  she  pulled  it  from  his  arms.  As  it 
dropped  on  the  floor,  she  heard  a  dull  thud. 

The  two  were  face  to  face  on  the  sofa. 

As  if  influenced  by  some  premonition  of  evil,  she  whis- 
pered : 

"What's  that?" 

In  a  low  voice  he  answered  "Nothing,"  and  he  bundled 
up  the  coat  beside  him  on  the  sofa.  Then  his  eyes  wan- 


300  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

dered.  His  hand  sought  his  cigarette-case  in  which  a 
single  opal  was  set.  He  opened  it.  It  was  empty.  She 
watched  him  curiously.  As  he  was  on  the  point  of  replac- 
ing it  in  his  pocket,  she  stopped  him. 

Never  mind,"  she  said.     "I've  got  some  cigarettes 
here.     Have  you  forgotten  ?" 

'Forgotten?     Forgotten  what?" 

"What  day  this  is." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  as  he  sat  down. 

"I  really  don't  know.     I  haven't  noticed." 

"Look!"  she  said  fiercely.  "Look,  look!  Your  work, 
your  hideous  work  has  made  you  forget  what  day  this  is!" 

She  held  the  cigarette-case  up  to  his  face,  where  he 
could  see  engraved  on  the  outside  in  her  own  handwriting: 
February  16,  1904,  11  p.m. 

At  these  words  he  dropped  his  cigarette-case  tingling 
to  the  floor. 

"Eleven  p.m.,"  he  echoed.  "Yes.  Twenty  minutes 
more,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"It's  our  anniversary ! "she  cried,  a  flash  of  indignation 
in  her  voice;  "and  that's  how  you  treat  me!  Our  anni- 
versary! And  you  speak  as  though  you  were  going  to 
face  death.  And  you  had  forgotten  it  till  now!  Oh, 
Richard,  Richard,  no  wonder  when  you  are  spending  your 
life  investigating  the  details  of  other  women's  lives,  no 
wonder  you  forget  about  me.  Go  to  the  glass,  and  look 
what  it  has  brought  you  to.  You  are  a  worn  and  haggard 
man.  Look  at  yourself.  And  you  have  forgotten  our 
anniversary!  I've  been  thinking  of  it  for  days  and  days. 
But  I  didn't  insult  you  by  reminding  you  of  it.  I  thought 
you  would  prepare  some  surprise  for  me.  But,  do  you 
know,  when  I  saw  you  this  morning  I  almost  hoped  you 
wouldn't;  indeed,  I  sincerely  hoped  you  wouldn't.  And 
as  this  is  our  anniversary,  our  sacred  day,  I  thought  I 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  301 

should  like  to  see  how  you  were  spending  it,  and — I  went 
down  to  the  Law  Courts — and  I  saw — " 

Suddenly  he  sprang  up. 

"If  you  love  me,  not  a  word,  Gwen,  my  darling;  you 
don't  understand.  You've  got  to  do  something  for  me 
now."  His  voice  was  imperious.  "Go  to  the  piano  and 
play  me  music — Bach,  Chopin,  Beethoven,  any  of  that 
sort  of  music — that's  the  sort  of  thing  I  want — anything 
soft  and  soothing.  Play  me  soft,  soothing  music  for  ten 
minutes.  Ten  minutes  by  the  clock;  not  a  moment  long- 
er." 

She  protested  in  amazement: 

"You're  all  nerves." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  piano. 

"Do  as  I  tell  you  or  I'll  leave  the  house.  I  will  leave 
it  for  ever.  I  will  leave  you  altogether.  My  God,  do 
as  I  tell  you!" 

And  she  did  as  as  he  told  her. 

He  lay  at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  his  eyes  closed. 
She  threw  occasional  glances  at  him,  and  fancied  that 
he  slept. 

Suddenly  she  ceased. 

"I  think  it  is  ten  minutes  now." 

Again  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

He  rose  quickly.     "I  must  go." 

"You  will  leave  me  like  that?  Oh,  no,  you  can't  do 
that — on  our  anniversary!  Oh,  no,  Richard,  you  can't 
leave  me!  Wilfred  won't  be  home  before  twelve  at  the 
earliest." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  then  deliberately  put  on  his  coat 
and  picked  up  his  hat. 

"What  have  I  done ?"  she  pleaded. 

"  Nothing — darling." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me?" 


302  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Instantly  his  arm  stretched  towards  her.  But  he  with- 
drew it. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  can't  kiss  you  to-night.  I 
would  give  all  the  world  to  kiss  you  to-night,  but  I  can't 
kiss  you — to-night." 

In  an  agony  of  apprehension  she  rushed  towards  him. 

"What  have  you  got  in  your  coat?" 

With  a  swift  movement  he  had  reached  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   CRY   IN  THE   NIGHT 

PRECISELY  at  eleven  o'clock  Richard  stood  in  the  porch 
of  Billy's  house  in  Tilney  Street.  The  street  was  deserted. 
In  the  distance,  he  could  hear  the  steps  of  a  constable. 
The  houses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way  were  shrouded 
in  darkness. 

He  placed  the  key  in  the  door  and  opened  it.  Then  he 
closed  the  door  silently.  He  listened  for  any  sound  in 
the  house,  but  all  was  still. 

He  walked  across  the  tesselated  pavement  of  the  entrance 
hall  on  to  the  carpet.  Within  half  a  minute,  he  had  turned 
the  handle  of  the  study  and  closed  the  door. 

Seated  at  a  desk  facing  the  window,  he  saw  Billy's 
back.  The  figure  made  no  move. 

"Billy,"  he  said. 

The  man  rose  with  a  quick,  startled  movement.  His 
face  was  hideous,  grotesque,  terrible.  His  complexion 
was  mottled  and  flabby.  His  eyes  appeared  to  have  been 
driven  into  his  head  by  pulpy  adiposity.  The  mouth 
drooped  at  the  corners — the  shoulders  slouched  forward; 
it  seemed  as  though  the  frame  had  lost  the  power  of 
supporting  the  body.  Billy  had  always  been  vulgar. 
To-night,  in  his  frock-coat,  he  appeared  like  a  workman, 
say  a  carpenter,  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  entirely  out  of 
place  in  a  room  furnished  with  bourgeois  luxury,  saddle- 
bag upholstery,  and  imitation  Sheraton  work. 

Richard  stood  at  the  door,  a  lean  figure.  An  avenger, 
in  Billy's  eyes. 


304  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

With  a  pitiable  effort  he  moved  towards  his  brother-in- 
law  and  held  out  a  limp  hand. 

Richard  did  not  take  it. 

In  a  voice  that  he  hardly  recognised,  so  husky  and  un- 
certain was  it,  Billy  said: 

"What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?" 

Richard,  with  his  hands  deep  down  in  his  pockets, 
stood  towering  above  him. 

"Sit  down!" 

The  other  man  was  on  the  point  of  protesting,  but  his 
eyes  met  Richard's,  and  then  they  fell. 

"Sit  down,"  he  repeated.  He  was  surprised  that  Billy 
obeyed  him. 

He  sat  down  _n  a  large  arm-chair,  and  stretched  out  a 
shaking  hand  towards  a  half-empty  carafe  of  whisky  in 
the  tantalus  on  the  table. 

Richard's  hand  shot  out. 

"Wait!     Not  yet." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  The  tremulous  voice  was  out 
of  harmony  with  the  violence  of  the  question. 

"Have  your  servants  gone  to  bed  ?" 

"The  parlourmaid  is  downstairs.  The  doctor  and 
the  nurse  are  with  Ethel.  It  may  happen  at  any  mo- 
ment." 

"No  one  knows  I  am  here  ?" 

"No,  why  the  devil  are  you  here?  Can't  you  behave 
like  a  human  being?  Can't  you  sit  down ?" 

"Billy,  I'm  going  to  behave  very  much  like  a  human 
being." 

"Speak  out,  speak  out.  I  can't  bear  this."  His  collar 
was  soaked  with  perspiration.  He  was  perspiring  at 
every  pore;  his  face  and  hands  were  shining. 

Richard  moved  across  the  hearth-rug,  and  stood  in 
front  of  him. 


THE  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT  305 

"Can't  you  speak?"  cried  Billy.  "What  the  devil's 
the  meaning  of  all  this  mystery?" 

Slowly  Richard  spoke.  He  could  hear  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  through  his  words. 

"  To-morrow  morning  there  will  be  a  warrant  issued  for 
your  arrest!" 

Billy's  eyes  blinked.  His  hands  fell  by  the  sides  of  the 
arm-chair.  Richard  could  see  that  his  lips  were  framing 
the  words  "For  my  arrest?"  But  no  sound  came. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

No  answer  came  from  the  lips.  The  eyes  blinked 
horribly.  He  was  a  mass  of  inert  consternation.  At  last 
he  spoke  one  word,  "Do  ?" 

Furious  at  his  futile  terror,  Richard  shook  him  by  the 
shoulder. 

"Yes,  do!  What  are  you  going  to  do?  You've  allowed 
Ethel  to  face  the  shame  here.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

Suddenly,  the  fat  head  fell  back  on  the  top  of  the  chair. 
The  body  heaved.  "Do?  Oh,  my  God,  do!  What  the 
devil  can  I  do?" 

And  this  was  the  man — this  wreck  devoid  of  purpose, 
caught  in  the  meshes  of  his  own  crime — who  had  married 
his  sister.  Richard  felt  that  he  could  have  battered  out 
his  brains  with — something  cold  that  he  held  tightly 
clenched  in  his  pocket. 

Slowly  the  head  moved  forward,  a  hand  moved  out  to- 
wards the  tantalus. 

Richard  struck  it  down — viciously,  angrily. 

The  blow  brought  the  crushed  man  to  some  sense  of 
his  position.  With  eyes  peering  slyly  at  Richard,  he 
whispered : 

"Can't  I  get  away?" 

"  Get  away  ?"  sneered  the  other.  "Getaway?  Where 
on  God's  earth  can  you  go ?  T'hey  would  have  you  back 


306  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

from  anywhere.  You  coward!  You  cur!  That's  your 
first  thought,  is  it?  To  save  your  skin!  To  leave  Ethel, 
and  your  child  to  bear  the  ignominy  of  it  all!" 

In  spite  of  his  determination  to  keep  calm,  fury  had  him 
in  its  grip. 

"Why  the  devil  didn't  you  send  Ethel  away  to  some 
place  where  she  wouldn't  hear  just  at  this  moment?" 

He  sighed  a  weary  sigh  of  hopeless  despair. 

"I  had  no  money.  I  haven't  any  money  at  all.  It's 
all  gone;  every  penny.  I'm  in  debt  all  round.  Besides, 
I  was  afraid,  I  was  afraid.  There  came  a  time  when  I 
knew  it  must  happen.  And  I  wanted  Ethel.  I  love 
Ethel." 

Then  his  head  fell  forward  and  buried  itself  in  the  fat 
hands.  His  body  shook.  He  was  crying,  crying,  and 
his  agony  shook  his  whole  frame. 

But  for  him  there  was  no  mercy. 

Richard  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  shook   him. 

"There's  no  time  for  that.  You've  got  to  think. 
You've  got  to  decide  what  you'll  do.  I  am  going  to 
decide  what  you'll  do." 

Then  he  turned  on  Richard. 

"You  are  not  my  judge." 

"I  am  not  your  judge,"  came  the  cold  answer.  "But 
I  know  what  your  sentence  will  be.  I  have  seen  the  papers 
in  the  case  and  your  sentence  will  be  ten  years. " 

The  pink  in  his  face  had  faded  to  yellow  as  Billy  sank 
back  into  a  chair. 

"Ten  years!  Oh,  my  God,  my  God,  I  can't  go  through 
it!  I'm  not  strong!  I'm  not  strong!  Ten  years  behind 
prison  bars !  Ten  years  without  Ethel !  I  can't  go  through 
it.  I  can't." 

Then  he  rose  suddenly. 

"Richard,  with  your  influence,  you  can  do  something 


THE  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT  307 

for  me.  You're  my  brother-in-law.  Can't  you  go  to  the 
Treasury?  Can't  you  do  something?" 

"I  can  do  nothing,"  answered  Richard. 

"  Yes,  but  look  at  the  scandal !  You  must  do  something. 
If  I  get  away,  you  can  use  your  influence.  You  are  a 
great  power.  You  can  see  that  I  am  not  brought  back." 

"There  are  only  two  places  from  which  you  can't  be 
brought  back. " 

"What  are  they?"  cried  Billy,  a  gleam  of  hope  lighting 
up  his  face. 

"Heaven  and  Hell." 

The  two  men  were  standing  face  to  face.  The  one,  cold 
and  merciless,  who  was  passing  the  death  sentence  upon  a 
shivering  criminal;  the  other,  a  broken,  hopeless  man. 

"Haven't  you  enough  courage  to  do  the  right  thing?" 

Billy  fell  back  in  the  chair,  huddled  and  cowering. 

"No,  no,  no!     I  can't,  I  can't!" 

"Have  you  the  courage,"  asked  Richard,  "to  stand  up 
in  the  Old  Bailey  and  receive  a  sentence  that  is  worse  than 
Hell  ?  To  suffer  for  years  and  years  the  torture  of  the  soul 
and  of  the  body?  To  know  that  while  you  are  eating 
prison  bread,  associating  with  only  the  outcasts  of  the 
world,  your  wife  and  your  child  are  also — through  your 
doing — outcasts  from  the  world.  If  you  were  found  dead 
here,  their  honour  would  be  saved.  One  minute's  courage, 
one  minute's  pain  would  save  you  years  of  the  most  hope- 
less sorrow,  the  most  terrible  agony.  I'm  not  here  to  ad- 
vise you.  I'm  here  to  tell  you  what  to  do." 

Purple  tinges  had  sprung  out  on  the  wretched  man's  face. 
The  puffiness  under  the  eyes  was  outlined  with  deep  black. 

"I  can't!     I  can't!"     he  moaned. 

"I  will  look  after  my  sister  and  my  sister's  child.  You 
need  have  no  fear  upon  that  score." 


308  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  he  gasped. 

"If  there  were  any  hope,  I  should  be  here  to  give  it  you. 
There  is  no  hope." 

"But  I  have  nothing  here.  I  have  nothing  with  which 
I  could—" 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  answered  Richard. 

From  his  pocket  he  drew  forth  a  revolver,  cold  and 
glittering. 

"Another  man  took  his  life  with  this.  The  other  man 
died  to  save  his  honour.  You  will  die  to  save  the  honour 
of  three  people." 

Billy  stared  at  him  with  stony  eyes.  He  took  his  hand- 
kerchief from  his  pocket  and  wiped  the  moisture  from  his 
hands. 

"What  is  your  answer?"  Richard  asked,  putting  the  re- 
volver on  the  table. 

Billy  took  it  in  his  right  hand,  the  fingers  of  his  left 
passed  slowly  along  the  barrel.  He  seemed  scarcely  to 
notice  what  he  was  doing,  and  then,  with  a  movement 
almost  of  terror,  he  put  it  back  on  the  table. 

"What  is  your  answer?"  thundered  Richard. 

Billy's  head  was  supported  on  the  palm  of  one  hand. 
Richard  noticed  that  he  was  getting  very  bald,  that  the 
skull  glistened  through  the  greasy  hair. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  in  a  quivering  whisper. 

Then  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  Richard  in  the 
face. 

Richard  interrupted  the  query. 

With  his  fingers,  he  gently  touched  Billy's  right  tem- 
ple. 

The  doomed  man  nodded: 

"I  see." 

"I  shall  go  into  the  hall,"  said  Richard.     "Directly  I 


THE  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT  309 

am  out  of  the  room,  you  will  lock  the  door.  Yes,  the  key 
is  in  the  door.  Here  is  the  latchkey  you  sent  me.  When  I 
have  heard  the  shot  fired,  I  shall  leave  the  house.  Not  be- 
fore. Remember,  I'm  waiting." 

"I  understand." 

Billy  stretched  out  his  hand  and  poured  out  half  a  tum- 
blerful of  brandy. 

Richard  stopped  him: 

"That'll  be  enough." 

He  took  up  the  cut  glass  bottles  of  brandy  and  whisky 
and  emptied  their  contents  on  the  floor.  Then  he  held  out 
his  hand. 

Billy  gulped  down  the  brandy — half  of  it.  He  stared 
at  Richard.  His  eyes  sparkled. 

"No,  no.  Not  that.  I've  always  hated  you,  and  I 
hate  you  now.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  my  courage.  It 
won't  fail  me." 

Then  Richard  walked  to  the  door. 

The  key  was  turned  on  the  inside.  There  was  silence 
in  the  house.  The  grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  struck 
a  quarter  to  twelve  with  the  chimes  that  brought  good 
cheer  to  Whittington.  "Turn  again,  Whittington, "  they 
said.  He  listened.  "Turn  again,  Whittington,  Lord 
Mayor  of  London."  He  compelled  his  mind  to  listen  to 
the  chimes.  Twice  they  had  struck. 

Suddenly  a  dull  report.     He  had  never  thought  that 

a  revolver-shot  sounded  like  that.     Then  the  thud  of  a 

falling  body  on  the  floor.     "Turn  again,  Whittington." 

—Then   silence.     Silence   complete,   terrible,   cold    as 

the  grave. 

He  heard  a  rattle  in  his  own  throat.  Limp,  almost 
at  the  end  of  his  forces,  he  staggered  to  the  front  door 
and  closed  it  clumsily  yet  silently.  Out  into  the  night 


310  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

air  he  went  precipitately  from  the  house.  With  long 
strides  he  crossed  the  street.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the 
house.  There  were  lights  in  the  windows  above  the  draw- 
ing-room floor. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  night  a  woman's  shriek,  a  shriek 
poignant  of  agony,  came  from  those  windows. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   REVOLVER 

THE  suicide  of  Billy  occurred  unhappily  at  a  moment 
when  there  was  dearth  of  news.  Therefore  the  papers 
devoted  to  it  an  amount  of  attention  out  of  all  proportion 
to  its  importance. 

Greatly  to  the  annoyance  of  Richard,  in  many  journals 
the  deceased  was  spoken  of  as  "Mr.  William  Brinstable, 
brother-in-law  of  Mr.  Cliftonville,  the  eminent  actor, 
and  Mr.  Richard  Meyville,  the  well-known  barrister." 

On  this  matter  Richard  had  an  interview  with  his 
brother  at  the  theatre  during  a  matinee.  He  spoke  hotly 
to  him  between  the  acts  while  Montague  was  nervously 
adding  dabs  of  make-up  to  his  face. 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand,  Montague,  that  all 
advertisement  is  not  good  advertisement.  Upon'  my 
soul,  I  don't  think  that  you  have  any  sense  of  the  fitness 
of  things  at  all." 

"What?     How?"   asked   the  other. 

"You  heard  what  I  said." 

"Yes,  and  I  think  my  dresser  heard  too.  It  is  not 
respectful  to  talk  to  me  in  the  way  you  do." 

"My  dear  Montague,"  answered  Richard,  "I've 
never  pretended  to  respect  you.  I  don't  think  that  you 
respect  yourself." 

"What?     How?" 

"No  man  who  had  any  respect  for  himself  would 
deliberately  arrange  to  be  advertised  by  means  of  his 
brother-in-law's  disgrace." 


312  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"So  it  was  disgraceful,  was  it?" 

"It  was  disgraceful.  Billy  had — muddled  his  affairs 
terribly  and  Ethel  is  left  without  a  penny.  Thank  God, 
she's  all  right — doing  well.  The  girl  is  a  healthy  infant. 
Ethel  doesn't  know  that  she's  a  widow.  She  will  not  be 
told  just  yet.  I  attended  the  inquest  this  morning." 

"Yes,"  answered  Montague.  "I  saw  by  the  papers 
that  you  were  there.  I  ought  to  have  gone,  perhaps. 
Yes,  I  certainly  ought  to  have  gone." 

Richard  saw  what  was  passing  through  the  actor's 
mind.  Had  he  attended  the  inquest,  the  papers  would 
have  mentioned  the  fact. 

In  supreme  contempt  for  his  brother's  insane  love  of 
publicity,  he  said : — 

"I  believe,  Montague,  that  you  would  consider  it  a 
good  advertisement  to  be  tried  for  murder." 

Montague  took  him  seriously. 

"My  God,  yes!  What  a  thing  that  would  be,  eh?— 
provided  one  was  acquitted.  Even  if  one  only  got  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt — it  would  be  a  splendid  advertise- 
ment." 

Richard  could  hardly  control  his  disgust.  In  a  cold 
voice  he  said: 

"Of  course,  as  you  are  the  elder  brother,  it  is  your 
privilege  to  look  after  Ethel." 

Montague  gazed  up  at  him  with  eyes  of  horror. 

Richard  smiled. 

"It  is  your  privilege,  of  course.  But  as  your  benevo- 
lence could  not  possibly  be  alluded  to  in  the  papers,  I 
doubt  whether  it  would  be  worth  your  while.  I  will  be 
responsible  for  her  future." 

"Yes;   perhaps  you  had  better.     You  have  more  time." 

Richard's  statement  as  to  his  intentions  with  regard 
to  Ethel  had  been  so  welcome  to  him  that  he  had  not 


THE  REVOLVER  313 

troubled  to  resent  the  allusion  to  his  fondness  for  adver- 
tisement. 

"Everything  she  has,"  said  Richard,  "will  go.  The 
brokers  are  in  the  house  already." 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  how  awful!  This  must  be  kept 
out  of  the  papers;  absolutely  out  of  the  papers.  Damn 
it!"  he  cried  indignantly,  flinging  down  the  stick  of 
grease  paint  and  dabbing  some  powder  on  his  cheek, 
"if  it  gets  about  that  my  sister  has  the  brokers  in  her 
house,  it  may  interfere  with  my  knighthood." 

Richard,  out  of  devilry,  enquired: 

"How  would  it  be  for  you  to  buy  the  brokers  out?" 

He  made  no  direct  answer,  but  stood  up,  and  striking 
an  attitude  of  wonderful  beauty  and  grace,  said: 

"Richard,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  If  my  new  piece 
is  a  success — it's  the  finest  part  that  I  have  ever  had,  I'm 
on  the  stage  for  the  whole  of  the  third  act — I'll  go  halves 
with  you  in  whatever  you  do  for  Ethel." 

And  he  held  out  a  dramatic  hand  to  seal  the  lavish 
bargain. 

At  that  moment  the  call-boy's  voice  was  heard: 

"Mr.  Cliftonville,  if  you  please." 

And  the  eminent  actor  hurried  off. 

Richard,  on  returning  to  the  Temple,  instantly  saw 
from  John's  face  that  something  was  amiss.  The  clerk 
ga/ed  mysteriously  at  him,  and  followed  him  into  his 
room. 

"I  suppose,  sir,  you'll  be  able  to  keep  appointments 
for  this  afternoon  ?  There  are  three  consultations." 

"Certainly.  You've  got  the  Bill  of  Exchange  case 
taken  out  of  the  list  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Counsel  on  the  other  side  were  quite  willing 
under  the  circumstances.  I  think  the  inquest  went  off 
very  well,  considering." 


314  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"How  do  you  mean  'considering'?  What  do  you 
mean?" 

John  had  been  in  attendance  upon  Richard  before  the 
coroner. 

"Well,  sir,  of  course  it  was  a  case  of  suicide;  a  deliber- 
ate case.  But  sometimes  these  juries  are  not  willing  to 
add  'While  of  unsound  mind.'  ' 

"Still,"  said  Richard,  "Dr.  Braxton-Drewe  knows 
his  business." 

"Nobody  better,  sir." 

Why,  thought  Richard,  didn't  the  man  go  away  ?  Why 
did  he  stand  staring  at  him  with  curious  eyes  ?  Why 
had  he  ventured  to  suggest  it  wasn't  a  case  of  suicide  ? 

Uneasily  shuffling  his  feet,  while  he  rubbed  his  fat 
chin  with  his  hand,  John  said : 

"The  coroner's  officer  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  I've 
known  him  for  many  years.  And  he  showed  me  the 
revolver  that  Mr.  Brinstable  shot  himself  with." 

Richard  darted  a  glance  at  the  clerk. 

Moseley,  now  immovable,  stared  at  him.  Each  knew 
what  was  passing  in  the  other's  mind.  It  was  clear  to 
Richard  that  John  knew  of  his  share  in  the  death  of 
Billy.  John  knew  that  Richard  was  aware  of  his  know- 
ledge. 

"That  will  do,  John,"  said  Richard  sharply. 

When  the  door  had  closed,  he  threw  himself  back  in 
his  chair  and  summed  up  the  situation. 

"He  knows,"  he  reflected,  "that  I  took  the  revolver  to 
Billy.  He  recognized  the  revolver.  He  knows  that  I 
compelled  Billy  to  shoot  himself.  He  knows  that,  in 
point  of  law,  I  am  an  accessory  before  the  fact;  that, 
technically,  I  am — guilty  of  murder." 

He  laughed.  There  was  hysterical  cynicism  in  his 
laughter. 


THE  REVOLVER  315 

"Good  heavens!  I  am  liable  to  be  hanged — by  the 
neck  until  I  am  dead!  And  the  Lord  may  be  requested 
to  have  mercy  on  my  soul.  And  a  chubby,  red-faced 
parson  might  be  called  upon  to  say  'Amen.'  Good 
heavens!  This  is  a  slice  out  of  the  comedy  of  life!  I 
shall  go  down  to  the  Old  Bailey  to  defend  the  French 
Jewess,  when  ray  place  is  really  in  the  dock.  What 
infernal  nonsense  the  law  is!  I'm  a  murderer;  that's 
what  I  am,  technically  a  murderer." 

He  cast  a  contemptuous  glance  upon  the  volumes  in 
his  bookcases. 

"The  solution  of  the  whole  thing  is  that  each  man 
must  be  a  law  to  himself.  There  is  only  one  tribunal  by 
which  we  can  be  tried  justly,  and  that  is  the  tribunal  of 
our  own  hearts." 

He  went  up  to  the  mantelpiece  and  looked  into  the  glass : 

"I'm  looking  devilish  old,  but  I'm  not  guilty." 

He  stretched  out  his  face  closer  to  the  mirror. 

"I  may  not  be  good-looking,  but  I'm  a  good  sort. 
It's  a  strange  thing,"  he  thought,  "that  perhaps  the  only 
really  good  action  of  my  life  is,  in  point  of  law,  a  crime." 

He  attached  no  great  importance  to  Moseley's  know- 
ledge of  his  share  in  the  matter  of  Billy's  death.  Moseley 
was  a  man  of  sound  sense  and  great  discretion.  Still,  he 
was  now  completely  in  Moseley's  hands. 

Owing  to  Billy's  suicide,  nothing  more  was  heard  of 
the  proposed  prosecution  of  "A.  B."  The  general 
belief  born  of  the  affair  was  that  Billy,  on  seeing  bank- 
ruptcy staring  him  in  the  face,  as  the  result  of  rash  specu- 
lations, had  committed  suicide,  to  save  his  honour,  for 
the  sake  of  his  wife  and  child. 

Everyone  expressed  deep  sympathy  for  Ethel.  But 
everyone  remembered  all  the  weak  points  in  Billy. 

As  soon  as  she  was  well  enough  to  leave  London, 


316  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Richard  sent  her,  with  his  mother,  to  Bexhill.  His  own 
solicitor  undertook  the  winding  up  of  Billy's  affairs  which 
were,  of  course,  in  a  hopeless  condition.  Nothing  could 
be  saved  from  the  wreck. 

The  additional  encumbrances  imposed  upon  him 
induced  him  to  work,  if  possible,  even  harder  than  before. 
He  was  obliged  to  spend  at  his  chambers  much  of  the 
time  that  he  had  previously  devoted  to  Gwendolen. 
Much  to  her  annoyance,  he  became,  to  her  thinking,  a 
mere  automaton.  Sometimes  three  days  would  pass 
wherein  she  did  not  see  him.  And  John  firmly  dis- 
couraged all  telephonic  communication.  Often,  how- 
ever, at  two  or  three  in  the  morning,  she  from  her  bed, 
would  telephone  to  him,  in  his  bed. 

They  would  have  long  talks  in  the  silence  of  the  night. 
Talks  that  from  the  circumstances  in  which  they  were 
placed,  gave  to  each  other  almost  a  physical  pleasure. 
But  in  this  pleasure  there  was  also  an  element  of  physical 
pain.  It  seemed  to  her  intolerable  that  here  wras  a  man 
whose  voice  she  could  hear,  whose  body  she  could  picture, 
lying  alone  in  his  solitary  flat,  whilst  she,  a  miracle  of  soft, 
white  beauty  and  fluffy  silk,  was  longing  to  stretch  out 
her  arms  to  bind  him  to  her. 

Sometimes  she  would  suddenly  ring  off  abruptly  with 
the  cry: 

"Oh,  my  darling,  I  can't  bear  it.     You  are  killing  me!" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE   HINT    OF  THE    "HANGING   JUDGE*' 

THE  sudden  death  of  "Jack"  Bishop,  the  leader  of 
the  Parliamentary  Bar,  created  a  sensation  among  the 
practitioners  at  Westminster.  For  many  years  this 
genial  man  had  been  making  anything  between  £35,000 
and  £40,000  a  year.  Now  a  large  amount  of  work  would 
be  thrown,  so  to  speak,  upon  the  market.  Richard, 
of  course,  would  not  profit  thereby,  except,  perhaps, 
indirectly.  But  the  leading  K.  C's  who  practised  before 
the  committees  expected  very  considerable  additions 
to  their  incomes. 

One  morning,  two  days  after  the  great  man's  death, 
John,  with  a  glow  of  pleasure  on  his  face,  came  into 
Richard's  chambers  in  Parliament  Street. 

"The  managing  clerk  of  the  solicitors  to  the  Great 
Southern  Railway  has  just  been  here,  sir.  He  says 
that  if  you  will  take  silk  he  will  give  you  all  the  legal 
business  of  the  Great  Southern.  That  will  mean  at 
least  £5,000  a  year." 

This,  indeed,  was  brilliant  news. 

"You  must  take  silk  at  once,  sir.  You  must  write  to 
the  Lord  Chancellor  to-day." 

The  taking  of  silk  is  always  a  hazardous  step,  but 
with  a  guarantee  of  £5,000  from  one  railway  company 
alone  it  would  have  been  ridiculous  for  Richard  to  hesitate. 
Besides,  John  drew  a  rose-coloured  picture  of  the  future. 
Once  established  as  leading  counsel  for  the  Great  Southern, 


318  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

he  would  get  an  enormous  amount  of  other  work.  He 
stood  to  lose  nothing;  he  was  bound  to  gain. 

The  one  feature  that  marred  his  delight  at  the  news 
was  the  fact  that  it  seemed  to  him  obvious  that  the  offer 
had  been  inspired  by  Lashbridge.  He  knew  that  ener- 
getic and  versatile  peer  took  considerable  interest  in 
railway  affairs.  He. was  no  dummy  chairman.  It  was 
impossible  for  Richard  to  blind  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
the  offer  had  come  from  his  rival.  Still,  so  advantageous 
was  the  offer  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  neg- 
lect any  step  towards  its  acceptance. 

Immediately  he  wrote  to  the  Chancellor  and  to  all  the 
seniors  on  his  circuit. 

Within  two  days  came  a  formal  acknowledgment  of 
his  letter. 

Then  a  fortnight  passed  without  further  news.  Every 
morning  John  enquired  as  to  the  matter.  It  seemed  to 
the  clerk  strange  that  a  man  so  obviously  entitled  to  the 
honour  should  not  have  instantly  received  it. 

One  day,  when  Richard  happened  to  be  conducting 
a  case  before  Tufnell,  he  received  at  the  luncheon  ad- 
journment a  note  from  the  judge,  asking  him  to  come 
and  see  him  in  his  private  room. 

He  found  him  in  his  red  and  black  robes,  his  wig  off, 
occupied  in  devouring  a  steak. 

At  the  barrister's  entrance  he  did  not  desist  from  his 
meal.  But  between  huge  mouthfuls  he  merely  said: 

"I  hear  from  the  Chancellor  that  you've  applied  for 
silk.  You  won't  get  it!" 

Richard  exclaimed  in  surprise: 

"Won't  get  it?" 

"The  Chancellor  is  an  extraordinary  man.  You 
remember — well,  perhaps  it  was  before  your  time,  but, 
anyway,  you  must  have  heard  how  a  shady  financier, 


THE  HINT  OF  THE  "HANGING  JUDGE"    S19 

an  Irishman,  a  man  called  Vincent  Skrene,  made  violent 
love  to  his  wife.  That  was  just  before  he  became  Attor- 
ney-General." 

Richard  was  on  the  point  of  asking  what  bearing  the 
Chancellor's  private  affairs  had  upon  his  application, 
when  the  judge  shot  a  piercing  glance  at  him.  "There's 
not  the  slightest  chance.  Have  you  the  slightest  chance  ? 
You  haven't." 

Then  Richard  understood. 

"You're  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea,"  said 
Tufnell.  "If  you  throw  over  the  woman,  you're  a 
cur;  if  you  don't,  you'll  remain  a  junior  to  the  end  of 
your  days.  Is  there  any  way  out  ?  No,  of  course  there 
isn't." 

All  the  colour  had  sunk  out  of  Richard's  face. 

His  obvious  distress  touched  the  kindly  heart  of  the 
raw-boned  man.  He  would  have  gladly  given  Richard 
shrewd  advice.  But  in  spite  of  his  vast  experience  of 
men,  of  women,  of  character  and  passion,  for  the  life  of 
him  he  didn't  know  what  advice  to  give. 

For  a  minute  or  two  he  ate  hard,  like  a  famished  eagle. 
Richard,  standing  by  his  side,  gazed,  fascinated,  at  the 
aquiline  profile,  at  the  mottled  claw-like  hands  as  they 
plied  noisily  with  the  knife  and  fork. 

"If  you  like  to  listen,  listen.  If  you  don't,  you  can 
go  away —  I  thought  you'd  gone.  You  haven't. 
Listen  or  not,  as  you  like.  Give  it  up.  That's  my 
advice.  Give  her  up.  Never  mind  about  being  a  cur. 
You've  got  a  lot  before  you" — here  he  had  trouble  with 
a  tough  piece  of  meat — "or  you've  nothing;  a  big  future, 
or — drab  dulness — and  damnation;  and  you'll  deserve 
it." 

He  seemed  to  be  soliloquising  as  he  ate  his  food. 

Yet  Richard  listened,  spellbound. 


320  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

He  felt  that  the  man  was,  in  his  strange  way,  giving 
him  advice  of  vital  value. 

"You're  in  love  with  her.  She's  in  love  with  you. 
She's  married.  You're  not  married  to  her.  You're 
both — wrong  'uns;  that's  the  expression.  It's  a  beastly 
expression.  But  it  serves  for  people  who  are  doing  a 
beastly  thing.  Don't  let  me  keep  you." 

Richard  stood  still. 

"You  can  stand  that?"  The  judge  did  not  look 
up. 

"Any    answer?     Any    defence?     No,    of    course    not. 
How  could  there  be?" 

There  was  in  the  old  man  some  mysterious  power 
that  compelled  silence.  Something  even  that  struck 
terror  into  the  young  man.  He  felt  that  he  was  not  being 
addressed  by  a  mere  friend,  an  ordinary  man  whom  one 
might  meet  at  dinner,  but  by  a  judge  in  a  semi-official 
capacity — by  a  judge  who  rarely  erred  in  his  decisions, 
a  judge  who  had  sent  more  prisoners  to  the  gallows  than 
any  other  man  of  our  time,  but  who  had  sent  no  one 
wrongly  to  his  doom.  It  was  Tufnell  who  had  tried 
Prinpski,  one  of  the  leading  Jewish  criminals  of  the  last 
century.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  all  the  Polish  Jews 
in  England  had  moved  heaven  and  earth — and  purses — 
to  secure  the  reprieve  of  their  compatriot,  Tufnell  had 
been  firm,  and  declined,  even  at  the  Home  Secretary's 
request,  to  admit  there  could  be  any  doubt  in  the  matter — 
and  Prinpski  had  confessed  his  guilt  upon  the  scaffold. 

This  stern  man,  with  his  vast  knowledge  of  men  and 
life,  had  condescended  to  take  an  interest  in  his  future. 

In  his  heart  he  felt  that  the  judge  was  right. 

Tufnell  continued. 

Though  in  his  demeanour  there  was  nothing  to  show 
that  he  felt  any  degree  of  nervousness  in  accomplishing 


THE  HINT  OF  THE  "HANGING  JUDGE"     321 

his  task,  in  very  truth  he  felt  horribly  afraid  lest  he  should 
bungle  it.  Therefore  he  took  refuge  in  generalities. 

"I  am  no  more  moral  than  anybody  else.  An  enor- 
mous amount  of  nonsense  is  talked  about  morality.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  a  new  invention  with  the  upper 
classes.  It  was  discovered  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria, 
and  it  has  not  had  much  chance  to  become  popular  yet. 
Was  society  moral  in  the  days  of  the  Tudors  or  the  Stuarts 
or  the  Hanoverians ?  Who  has  ever  said  it  was?" 

Here  he  flashed  a  hostile  glance  at  Richard. 

"But  you  are  not  the  Court.  You  are  not  society. 
Also  the  days  of  Bohemian  barristers  are  over.  A  bar- 
rister must  lead  a  decent  life.  What  do  you  want  to  ape 
the  immorality  of  your  betters  for?  That  is  the  curse 
of  the  country  in  our  time — the  immorality  of  the  middle 
classes.  Now  that  corruption  is  spreading  downwards, 
and  has  become  a  habit  of  the  million  instead  of  a  fashion 
confined  to  the  wealthy  or  well-bred,  the  next  genera- 
tion will  have  the  deuce  to  pay." 

The  judge  paused  and  hesitated.  Then  came  a  softer 
note  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke. 

"Richard," — he  had  never  called  him  by  his  Christian 
name  before — "you  are  the  next  generation.  I  was  at 
Cambridge  with  your  father.  I  was  senior  to  him.  But 
he  is  responsible  for  all  this.  He  was  the  vainest  man  I 
ever  met.  Of  course,  your  brother  has  got  the  full  eldest 
son's  inheritance.  But  you  are  touched  with  it,  Richard. 
Falling  in  love  with  another  man's  wife  is  often  the  result 
of  vanity  rather  than — well,  of  anything  else." 

"  But  you  said—  " 

Stern  at  the  symptom  of  opposition,  Tufnell  glared  at 
him. 

"Yes,"  he  interposed,  in  a  deep  voice,  "I  said  you  were 
a  wrong  'un,  and  I  stick  to  it.  And  the  strange  thing  is 


322  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

that  you  don't  know  it.  And  I  warrant  that  you  and  she 
believe  that  you  are  hero  and  heroine  in  some  poetical 
drama.  But  you're  not.  And,"  he  repeated,  shaking 
his  head,  "you're  wrong  'uns,  that's  what  you  are — wrong 
'uns." 

Very  simply  Richard  said: 

"I  am  in  love  with  her." 

Tufnell  stared  keenly  at  him  for  a  second.  But  the 
keenness  of  his  eyes  was  counterbalanced  by  the  softening 
of  his  lips.  Then  he  went  on  eating. 

"Come  here,"  he  said  brusquely,  as  he  poured  some 
Worcester  sauce  over  the  mass  of  potato  on  his  plate. 
He  looked  up,  and  held  out  his  hand,  gripping 
Richard's. 

"Do  the  right  thing,  whatever  it  is.  Do  I  know  what 
the  right  thing  is  in  an  affair  of  this  sort  ?  No,  I'm  damned 
if  I  do!  But  you'll  do  it.  Good  luck!  I'm  going  to  sum 
up  against  you  in  this  case.  You  haven't  a  leg  to  stand  on. 
But  you've  done  it  very  well." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  the  young 
barrister  went  out  of  the  room  in  a  state  bordering  on 
physical  collapse. 

John  was  his  partner  in  the  matter.  He  was  the  partner 
in  his  forensic  life.  How  could  he  possibly  go  to  him  and 
say:  "You've  set  my  feet  on  the  high  road  to  fortune. 
You've  financed  me.  And  now,  because  I'm  in  love  with 
a  woman,  my  career  must  be  stopped  when  I'm  in  the  full 
tide  of  prosperity."  How  could  he  say  that? 

Limp  and  lifeless  was  his  speech  after  lunch.  All  the 
strength  had  gone  out  of  him.  He  was  oppressed  by  the 
terrible  weight  of  his  dilemma.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
possible  course  open  but  to  go  to  Mrs.  Ainslie  and  say: 

"  I  love  you  more  than  I  have  ever  loved  you  before.  In 
the  days  of  despair  and  sorrow  you  comforted  me.  I  am 


THE  HINT  OF  THE  "HANGING  JUDGE"    323 

now  on  the  high  road  to  wealth  and  fame,  and  I  must  travel 
alone." 

No  decent  man  could  say  that  to  a  woman.  Even  if  he 
didn't  love  her,  such  a  statement  would  be  impossible. 
But  he  loved  her  passionately.  He  worshipped  her.  He 
was  intimate  with  all  the  secrets  of  her  soul.  Were  she 
out  of  his  life,  he  would  be  emasculated,  since  she  meant 
all  womanhood  to  him.  To  give  up  her  body;  to  abandon 
his  worship  at  that  white  satin  shrine.  Never  more  to 
know  the  perfume  of  her  fragrant  flesh —  No,  no!  That 
would  be  suicide. 

Side  by  side  in  his  brain  were  the  case  for  his  client  and 
these  reflections  as  he  spoke.  Tufnell  gazed  at  him  with 
piercing  eyes.  He  understood  the  terrible  struggle  in  the 
young  man's  heart. 

Almost  unknowingly  the  summing-up,  which  he  had  in- 
tended to  be  dead  against  Richard,  became  more  or  less  a 
compliment  to  the  distraught  counsel's  intellectual  powers, 
and  the  jury  found  in  Richard's  favour. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  said  the  K.  C.  on  the  other  side, 
"you  do  have  the  most  extraordinary  luck,  Meyville!  Do 
you  know  what  it  is  to  lose  a  case  ?" 

Richard's  thoughts  were  far  away.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  he  actually  answered  in  words  the  question  of  the 
"silk."  But  his  heart  framed  the  reply.  "I  know  what 
it  is  to  lose — everything." 

After  two  days  of  misery  and  two  nights  of  pain  he  select- 
ed his  course. 

So  obvious  was  the  course  before  him  that,  cruel,  pitiful, 
and  agonising  though  it  would  be,  it  took  him  an  almost  in- 
credibly short  space  of  time  to  see  that  he  must  say  good- 
bye to  her.  The  sooner  the  better.  Having  schooled  his 
mind  to  this  decision,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  com- 
municate it  to  her  instantly. 


324  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Without  deciding  in  what  manner  this  terrible  blow — 
terrible  for  him  and  terrible  for  her — should  fall,  he  rang 
her  up  on  the  telephone. 

"Can  I  see  you  any  time  this  afternoon?" 

He  had  been  fortunate  in  catching  her  as  she  was  on  the 
point  of  going  out.  She  would  be  in  at  dinner.  Would 
he  come  then — at  8  o'clock? 

He  hesitated.  He  would  prefer  to  walk  into  her  drawing- 
room  in  the  afternoon,  to  state  suddenly  his  determination, 
and  then  to  leave  the  house.  The  idea  of  sitting  through 
dinner  with  her,  and  then  telling  her  afterwards,  seemed  to 
him  an  unnecessary  and  cruel  accentuation  of  pain. 

But  his  hesitation  had  told  her  that  he  was  disengaged. 

"Come  to  dinner  at  eight,"  she  said.  "Wilfred  is  not 
well.  He  is  keeping  to  his  room." 

Therefore  at  eight  it  was  that  he  arrived  at  Green  Street. 

Obviously  Gwendolen  had  dressed  with  extraordinary 
care  to  please  him. 

As  she  greeted  him  in  a  black  dress  that  fitted  her  figure 
to  perfection,  he  attempted,  clumsily,  no  doubt,  to  make 
a  mental  picture  of  her  appearance,  a  picture  that  would 
haunt  him  till  his  death.  He  would  say  good-bye  to  her 
in  that  dress  of  black.  Perhaps  he  would  never  kiss  her 
lips  again.  He  hesitated  to  kiss  them  now.  But  she,  in 
her  overwhelming  joy  at  his  arrival,  noticed  only  that  his 
face  was  set  in  hard  lines. 

"Wilfred  is  in  a  fearful  state,"  she  said.  "He's  taken 
to  lying  in  bed  all  one  day,  and  then  going  out  in  any  sort 
of  weather  all  the  next." 

"What  a  man!" 

"He  wants  you  to  go  up  after  dinner  and  talk,"  she  add- 
ed. "  If  it  wasn't  such  an  old  story  now,  yours  and  mine — 
if  Wilfred  and  I  had  ever  been  seriously  married — I  sim- 
ply couldn't  bear  it — Wilfred's  fondness  for  you." 


THE  HINT  OF  THE  "HANGING  JUDGE"    325 

She  had  ordered  for  him  an  exquisite  dinner.  She  was 
full  of  news,  of  trivial,  amusing  anecdotes  which  she  rattled 
off.  The  hard  expression  of  his  face  seemed  to  her  not 
altogether  unbecoming  in  a  successful  barrister.  Grave 
and  austere  though  he  appeared  to  her,  she  knew  that  as 
a  lover  he  was  passionate,  and  that  in  his  passion  there  was 
no  trace  of  austerity,  but  with  greedy  hands  he  plucked 
the  best  fruits  of  love.  Therefore  the  contrast  of  his  ex- 
pression and  his  temperament  gave  her  a  subtle,  secret 
pleasure. 

"Such  a  funny  thing  happened  to-day,"  she  said,  when 
the  footman  had  left  the  room,  and  Richard  was  smoking 
a  cigar.  "You  noticed  that  Thomas  waited  on  us  ?  Well, 
Younghusband  has  gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Yes;  he  came  to  me  this  morning — you  know  his 
strange  little  stupid  face — and  gave  notice.  Wanted  to 
leave  at  the  end  of  the  month.  I  asked  why.  He  hummed 
and  hawed,  and  at  last  blurted  out" — and  she  mimicked 
the  manner  of  that  long,  lean  man —  "You  know,  madam, 
I  was  mixed  up — or,  rather,  I  gave  evidence — in  Lord 
Plymborough's  divorce  case,  and  it  doesn't  do  a  butler 
in  my  position  any  good  to  be  constantly  appearing — 
if  one  may  say  so — in  the  Divorce  Court.'  I  could 
scarcely  believe  my  ears.  'What  do  you  mean?'  I 
asked.  'Well,'  he  said,  'it's  very  awkward  for  me  to 
explain,  but — from  things  I've  noticed — I  shouldn't  be 
at  all  surprised  if  there's  a  divorce  case  here.'  The  man 
spoke  quite  respectfully.  Really,  I  was  very  much  amused 
in  spite  of  his  impertinence.  Of  course,  I  thought  he 
was  alluding  to  you.  But  he  wasn't!  He  was  alluding 
to — Lashbridge!  Then,  really,  I  became  indignant.  I 
ordered  him  out  of  the  house  then  and  there.  The  man 
is  a  complete  ass.  Kiss  me,  kiss  me,  kiss  me!" 


326  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

She  jumped  up  from  her  seat  and  threw  her  arms 
round  him. 

"Fancy  thinking  of  Lashbridge  when  he's  seen  my 
own  King  of  Cats!" 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  He  could  not  tell  her  what 
was  in  his  mind.  For  an  instant  the  cowardly  course  of 
writing  to  her  suggested  itself.  With  her  arms  around 
him,  with  her  soft  cheek  nestling  against  his,  how  was  he 
possibly  to  tell  her  that  he  would  never  see  her  again  ? 
He  searched  his  soul. 

Could  he,  could  he  possibly  say  to  her,  "I  am  never 
going  to  see  you  again.  Our  love,  though  it  is  not  at 
an  end,  though  it  burns  fiercer  than  ever,  is  never  hence- 
forward to  have  any  outlet.  I  am  going  into  a  meta- 
phorical monastery"?  How  could  he  keep  his  word? 
There  would  surely  be  moments,  burning  moments,  when 
uncontrollable  desire  would  throw  him  headlong  at  her 
feet.  He  did  not  until  now  realise  what  it  was  that  he 
had  decided  to  deny  himself.  Though  intoxicated  by 
the  perfume  of  her  flesh,  by  the  pressure  of  her  curves 
upon  his  body,  he  was  a  weak,  purposeless  man. 

"I'm  going  up  to  see  Wilfred,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"All  right,  dear.  Not  more  than  ten  minutes,  please. 
Don't  let  him  keep  you,"  she  pleaded.  "I  want  you, 
oh,  so  much  to-night." 

In  an  ecstasy  of  anticipation  she  waited  for  him. 

Wilfred  lay  in  bed,  inert  yet  eager.  His  lean  face 
seemed  yellow  against  the  pillow.  His  eyes,  through 
gold-rimmed  spectacles,  shone  brightly.  To  hear  him, 
he  was  grievously  ill,  worse  than  he  had  ever  been.  He 
pointed  to  the  tray  from  which  he  had  eaten,  in  his  own 
words,  an  unusually  big  dinner.  He  explained  that  he 
had  eaten  it  with  infinite  speed,  as  that  was  the  only 
way  he  could  eat  now,  but  that  the  food  he  consumed — 


THE  HINT  OF  THE  "HANGING  JUDGE"    327 

owing  to  various  structural  complications  which  he  had 
lately  detected — could  not  by  any  possibility  nourish  him. 
He  was  devising  a  system  of  nourishment  by  means  of 
patent  foods  and  various  medicaments.  He  intended, 
as  soon  as  he  was  well  enough,  to  eat  an  ounce  of  food 
every  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  At  his  side  were  various 
books  of  a  scientific  character,  by  the  assistance  of  which 
he  had  evolved  this  system.  Proudly  he  pointed  to  the 
bottles  on  the  washhand  stand.  They  were  all  sorts 
and  sizes.  "That's  what  keeps  me  alive,"  he  said; 
"there  are  fifteen  bottles  there,  and  I  could  not  do  with 
one  less." 

Richard  looked  at  them.  Some  were  labelled  "Poi- 
son." 

"When,  if  ever,  your  body  gets  into  the  condition 
that  mine  is  in  now,  you'll  find  that  poisons  are  the  only 
thing  that  do  any  good.  I've  taken  enough  poisons  at 
different  times  to  kill  an  army.  But  if  I  were  to  eat  a 
rump  steak  it  would  be  instant  death,  absolutely  instant 
death,  Richard." 

"Would  it,  indeed?" 

"It  would,"  he  answered,  almost  proudly.  And  thus 
he  rattled  on,  mainly  about  his  ailments.  He  compli- 
mented himself  upon  his  continued  existence.  He  at- 
tacked the  medical  profession.  It  was  all  very  absurd. 
Still,  the  society  of  Wilfred  seemed  to  Richard  preferable 
to  that  terrible  interview  which  was  imminent  with  Gwen- 
dolen. 

When  he  had  been  in  the  room  twenty  minutes  he  heard 
her  voice  calling  his  name. 

"Quite  right,"  said  Wilfred.  "You  know  she's  right 
in  many  things.  I  ought  not  to  talk.  Talking  fatigues 
me." 

"Yes?"  said  Richard  with  an  ironical  smile. 


328  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"I  ought  never  to  talk — at  least,  not  more  than  four 
or  five  hours  a  day.  I'm  quite  sure  that  I  ought  not  to 
talk.  Certainly  not  after  meals.  In  fact,  I'm  not  sure 
but  that  all  talking  between  meals  is  wrong." 

To  humour  him,  Richard  replied: 

"I've  no  doubt  it  is.  But  it  would  be  curious  if  bar- 
risters only  addressed  the  Court  while  eating  their  dinner." 

Wilfred  did  not  approve  of  this  flippancy. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "I'm  very  tired?  Turn 
out  the  light,  will  you  ?  I  think  I  shall  go  to  sleep. " 

"Good-night,  Wilfred." 

"Good-night,  Richard." 


CHAPTER  XXXIH 

RICHARD   AND   GWENDOLEN 

As  he  walked  down  the  stairs  in  sight  of  the  folding 
white  doors  that  opened  into  the  drawing-room,  he  felt 
a  sharp  catch  at  his  heart.  Silently  his  feet  fell  on  the 
thick  red  carpet.  Nearer  and  nearer  he  came  to  the 
two  heavily-gilded  door-knobs  of  the  great  white  doors. 
He  would  place  his  hand  on  one  of  them.  He  would  open 
the  door.  Instantly  he  would  tell  Gwendolen,  brutally, 
but  with  a  brutality  which,  from  her  point  of  view,  would 
eventually  seem  kind,  that  all  was  at  an  end. 

Even  when  his  hand  was  on  the  door-knob  he  hesitated. 

He  felt  a  coward,  a  mean,  despicable  coward.  Not 
only  was  he  seized  with  a  feeling  of  loathing  for  his  action, 
but  with  deep  pity  for  himself.  With  his  own  hand  he 
had  cut  his  heart  from  his  body. 

His  lips  were  hungering  for  her  love.  Yet  he  was  now 
to  lie  to  her  about  that  love  itself. 

One  door  was  ajar.     Slowly  he  pushed  it  forward. 

With  his  long,  swinging  walk  he  strode  across  the 
parquet  floor  to  where  she  was  sitting  on  the  sofa. 

A  look  of  radiant  pleasure  shot  up  to  greet  him.  A 
white  hand  drew  him  to  her  side.  But  he  stood  erect 
above  her,  feeling  in  his  heart  infinitely  small. 

"Gwendolen,"  he  said — and,  for  all  the  effort  he  made, 
there  was  a  tremor  in  his  voice — "Gwendolen,  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  something  horrible,  something  despicable. 
In  spite  of  everything  that  you've  done  for  me,  in  spite 
of  the  love  for" — and  here  he  spoke  with  a  genuine  note 


330  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

in  his  voice — "the  very  deep  affection  I  have  for  you, 
things — between  us — must  come  to  an  end." 

He  spoke,  staring  far  ahead  of  him,  his  eyes  avoiding 
hers. 

She  threw  down  the  evening  paper  petulantly. 

"My  dear  Richard,  I  don't  think  that's  funny.  Your 
experience  of  the  Law  Courts  has  warped  your  sense  of 
humour." 

"I'm  not  joking!"  he  cried.  Still  he  refrained  from 
meeting  her  eyes.  In  an  instant  horror  struck  at  her 
soul.  She  saw  the  graven  face  of  the  man,  the  averted 
aspect,  the  tightly  clenched  hands.  A  chill  passed  through 
her.  He  was  speaking,  obviously  if  not  from  his  heart, 
at  any  rate  from  his  mind.  What  the  situation  was  she 
by  no  means  understood.  But  she  was  in  the  presence 
of  a  man  who  had  come  to  tell  her  a  hideous  determination. 
This  was  the  man  whom  she  had  loved.  This  was  her 
man  of  men,  the  man  essential  to  her  being.  And  he 
was  telling  her  this  astounding  thing!  It  was  not  credible. 
But  the  waves  of  agony  that  passed  over  his  face,  as  he 
stood  silent  by  her  side,  proved  to  her  that  she  was  par- 
ticipating in  a  tragedy — a  tragedy  for  him  and  for  her. 

As  she  gazed  at  his  face,  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  stern 
man  with  the  large  shoulders  and  the  heavy,  aggressive 
chin  was  a  different  person  from  the  Richard,  the  kindly, 
caressing  Richard  to  whom  she  had  given  the  gold  cigarette 
case  on  which  was  commemorated  the  happiest  event 
in  her  life. 

Some  terrible  change  had  come  over  this  strong  man. 
She  felt  that  strong  though  he  was,  stern  though  he  was, 
by  the  nature  of  the  circumstances  he  stood  at  a  disad- 
vantage. If  she  knew  anything  of  him — and  she  knew 
much — he  was  heartily  ashamed  of  the  words  he  spoke. 

Now  she  nerved  herself  to  fight.     She  was  to  fight  for 


RICHARD  AND  GWENDOLEN  331 

his  heart;  she  was  to  fight  for  her  happiness.  And  she 
was  fighting  against  him.  Let  him  move.  For  a  full 
minute  she  gazed  at  him  with  tight-shut  lips.  She  tried 
by  the  power  of  her  eyes  to  draw  his  face  towards  her. 

But  he  stared  ahead,  right  to  the  end  of  the  room. 

"Well?"  she  said  at  length,  with  sharp  pain  in  her 
voice.  She  had  not  intended  to  speak,  but  the  tension 
was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"Well?"  she  repeated. 

With  a  familiar  action  that  she  had  so  often  admired, 
for  it  showed  off  to  the  greatest  advantage  his  strenuous 
figure,  he  raised  his  right  hand  and  slowly  stroked  his 
head.  He  was  nerving  himself  for  a  great  effort. 

"I  have  ceased  to  love  you,"  he  said. 

A  peal  of  laughter  was  her  answer. 

"Richard,  this  is  almost  the  first  lie — I  think  it  is 
quite  the  first  lie  that  you  have  ever  told  me!  There 
are  certain  things  that  should  not  be  lied  about.  Our 
love  is  sacred — at  any  rate,  to  me." 

Pouting,  as  with  irritation,  she  threw  herself  on  a 
sofa. 

"I've  grown  tired,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  that  he 
intended  to  be  convincing,  malevolent,  base. 

Then  ashamed  of  so  futile  and  feeble  a  lie,  he  rattled 
on: 

"My  dear,  you  have  always  been  far  too  good  for  me. 
I  have  always  worshipped  you,  as  you  know.  And  I 
thought  I  should  be  happy  with  you.  Of  course,  we  are 
happy  together.  But  now  I  have  discovered  that  I  am 
miserably  your  inferior.  I'm  a  mean,  selfish  hound. 
Let  us  go  our  different  ways." 

"We  have  no  different  ways,"  she  answered  in  amaze- 
ment, not  knowing  whether  she  was  playing  farce  or 
tragedy,  but  fearing,  fearing.  "You  and  I " 


332  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Then  with  a  supreme  effort,  feeling  that  the  ground 
was  slipping  away  from  him,  that  she  saw  that  he  was 
lying,  he  told  her  a  greater,  a  more  dastardly  lie. 

"I  am  in  love  with  another  woman." 

Now  here  was  sheer  folly.  She  knew  perfectly  well 
that  no  man  had  ever  gone  to  a  woman  and  broken  off 
a  liaison  in  this  fashion.  The  man  always  conceals  the 
new  love  from  the  old.  It  is  the  duty  of  the  old  love  to 
find  out  that  she  has  been  supplanted,  and  to  bring  the 
accusation  against  the  lover.  Enormously  ridiculous 
though  it  was,  it  seemed  to  her  an  additional  proof  that 
she  still  reigned  in  his  heart.  He  had  heightened  her 
anxiety  with  an  unknown  factor. 

Why  was  he  telling    these  preposterous  lies  ? 

Suddenly  she  rose  from  the  sofa. 

With  a  swift  movement  she  pulled  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket  the  gold  cigarette  case  on  which  was  engraved  in 
her  own  handwriting  the  hour  and  the  day  that  she  first 
became  his. 

Quite  calmly  she  said  as  she  looked  at  the  engraving: 

"What  a  wonderfully  long  time  ago  it  seems!  Well, 
well,"  she  added,  as  she  threw  it  on  the  pink  satin  sofa, 
"you've  no  further  use  for  it." 

In  an  instant  his  hand  was  stretched  out  and  he  had 
recovered  it. 

"My  God,  my  God!"  he  cried.  "I  shall  never  part 
with  that." 

Then  she  stood  up  to  him,  face  to  face,  gazing  up  at 
him. 

"I  am  at  a  disadvantage,  Richard.  Sit  down.  Let 
me  talk  to  you.  Sit  down!"  she  commanded. 

There  was  something  imperious  in  the  lithe  figure. 

He  threw  himself  on  the  sofa. 

"You've    told    me    lies    to-night,    Richard.     I    don't 


RICHARD  AND  GWENDOLEN  333 

deserve  that  you  should  tell  me  lies.  You  are  not  my 
judge.  I  am  not  your  judge."  She  was  surprised  at 
the  calmness  with  which  she  spoke.  "We  are,  as  you've 
often  said,  partners.  It's  a  disgraceful  thing  to  lie  to  a 
partner.  I  saw  you  in  the  Law  Courts  do  a  disgraceful 
thing.  I  saw  you  callously — as  there  is  a  God  in  heaven 
whose  laws  override  what  you  call  evidence — do  a  dis- 
graceful thing — a  horrible  thing.  You  don't  respect  a 
woman  because  she  is  a  woman.  You  don't  give  her 
justice  because  she  is  a  woman.  But  you  shall  give  me 
justice,  here  and  now — because  I  am  your  partner.  Don't 
treat  me  as  a  woman — even  as  a  woman  whom  you  love. 
Love  implies  indissoluble  friendship.  But  that  you  don't 
seem  to  understand.  Treat  me  as  you  would  treat  a 
man  who  is  honourable.  Behave  honourably.  Now, 
tell  me  the  truth.  What  have  you  got  to  say  ?  But 
remember  that  if  you  lie  to  me  I  shall  know  it.  Now 
speak." 

"My  dear  Gwendolen,"  he  said,  and  his  hands  were 
tapping  one  on  the  other;  he  did  not  dare  to  meet  her 
eyes. 

"Don't  you  speak  to  me  like  that.  Haven't  you  the 
courage  to  look  me  in  the  face?" 

He  raised  his  eyes,  but  only  for  a  second. 

"I  can't  look  you  in  the  face.  I'm  doing  a  hell  of  a 
thing." 

"Then,"  she  said,  "do  it  in  your  own  way."  Fighting 
for  her  life,  and  fighting  bitterly,  she  added,  "You  ought 
to  know  how  to  do  that  sort  of  thing." 

Anxious  to  hear  the  worst  he  had  to  say,  aware  that 
the  air  was  heavy  with  disaster,  she  almost  had  her  hand 
upon  his  throat  to  tear  the  words  out  of  his  heart.  There 
was  in  her  face  the  look  of  the  tigress  fighting  for  her 
young,  that  he  had  only  seen  once  before. 


334  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Go  on!"  she  said,  thrusting  her  face  towards  him  in 
the  silence  of  the  night. 

There  was  in  her  mind  some  sort  of  triumph  at  the 
sight  of  this  shrewd  cross-examiner,  this  master  of  elo- 
quence, cowering  before  her,  not  daring  to  raise  his  eyes 
to  her  face. 

At  last  he  spoke.  The  greater  the  brute  he  should 
appear  to  her,  the  more  callous,  the  more  contemptible, 
the  less  cruel  he  felt  would  be  the  blow  to  her.  Quite 
deliberately  he  said: 

"My  love  for  you  is  fatal  to  my  career.  I'm  going  to 
give  you  up!" 

He  could  hear  the  rustle  of  her  skirts  as  she  staggered 
back.  A  little  stifled  cry  of  despair  came  from  her  lips. 
That  was  all. 

The  silence  was  intolerable.     He  hesitated,  to  look  up. 

At  last  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  then  he  saw  the  ruin  he 
had  wrought. 

The  woman  was  the  epitome  of  hopeless  pain.  Her 
eyes  stared  vacantly.  Her  hands  were  clasped  on  her 
breast.  Her  whole  body  drooped  in  her  despair.  Her  frame 
swayed  to  and  fro.  Her  eyes  were  closed.  She  was  on 
the  point  of  fainting. 

He  rushed  to  her  side. 

Instantly  she  recovered  her  self-possession. 

"Don't  touch  me!  Don't  dare  to  touch  me!  Because 
you're  a  coward,  I'm  not  weak."  And  then,  with  bitter 
sarcasm,  she  added:  "Yes,  you  told  one  truth  to-night. 
You  said  that  you  were  a  mean  hound.  You  are  a  mean 
hound!" 

"My  darling  Gwendolen " 

She  waved  his  words  aside. 

"Stop!  I  want  to  think.  I  am  beginning  to  under- 
stand. It  is  a  horrible  thing  to  understand.  But  I  am— 


RICHARD  AND  GWENDOLEN  335 

beginning.  Yes,  I  begin  to  see.  You  have  made  my 
body — yes,  my  body — your  stepping-stone.  You  have 
had  what  you  wanted  of  me,  all  the  pleasure  I  could 
give,  and  all  the  help  I  could  offer.  You  have  found 
that  it's  better  to  be  a  lawyer  than  to  be  a  lover.  Yes,  I 
see,  Richard;  lawyers  are  knighted,  lovers  are  not.  Oh, 
it's  no  good  protesting.  You're  just  as  contemptible  as 
your  brother — every  bit." 

"Gwendolen,  don't  be  so  cruel  to  me!  You  know 
that  what  you  are  saying  is  unfair." 

In  his  own  mind  he  was  surprised  at  her  behaviour. 
She  should  have  been  hysterical  at  the  shock.  He  saw 
that  the  shock  had  been  terrible.  And  yet  she  retained 
her  self-composure.  A  woman  who  at  such  a  moment 
retained  her  self-composure  could  not,  he  tried  to  per- 
suade himself,  truly  love.  In  spite  of  his  acute  knowl- 
edge of  her  temperament,  he  did  not  know  that,  even  to 
the  last,  she  would  be  a  fighter;  that  it  was  not  until  she 
had  exhausted  every  weapon  with  which  she  could  struggle 
to  regain  him  that  she  would  lose  control  over  her 
brain. 

"I  am  not  unfair,"  she  said.  "I'm  only  looking  at 
things  calmly  and  deliberately.  Because  you  think,  oh, 
Richard,  unwise  in  your  generation,  that  it  is  a  prudent 
thing  for  you  to — 'chuck'  is  a  suitable  name  for  that 
sort  of  action — to  'chuck'  me,  it  does  not  follow  that  you 
are  right.  Now,  answer  me  truly." 

She  spoke  breathlessly,  fiercely.  "Answer  me  truly. 
Will  you  be  happy  without  me  ? " 

"My  God,  I  shall  be  wretched  without  you!" 

"I  know  I  shall  be  wretched  without  you.  Because 
I  have  only  you.  You've  got  your  work,  you  see.  I 
suppose  that  never  occurred  to  you.  You  have  not 
thought  of  me  in  this  calculation,  have  you?" 


336  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Thought?"  He  shot  his  head  forward.  "Thought, 
my  darling?" 

"Oh,  it's  no  good  calling  me  your  darling.  I'm  not 
your  darling.  You  desert  me.  And  tell  me  for  what, 
pray?  Be  quite  candid,  Richard;  I  should  like  to  know 
my  rival.  What  can  I  do  to  prevent  you  from  flinging 
yourself  into  my  rival's  arms?" 

And  then  he  told  her,  and  he  was  very  much  ashamed 
as  he  told  her  the  story  of  how  the  Lord  Chancellor  re- 
fused to  make  him  a  K.  C. 

"What  a  wonderful  man  Lashbridge  is!"  she  said 
reflectively. 

"What  the  deuce  has  Lashbridge  got  to  do  with  it?" 
asked  Richard. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "that  the  puppets  do  not  always 
see  who  is  pulling  the  strings.  Doesn't  it  strike  you  as 
somewhat  curious  that  Lashbridge  should  be  instrumen- 
tal in  getting  you  to  apply  for  silk?  Does  it  not  seem 
strange  that  the  Chancellor,  who  refuses  you  silk,  should 
be  a  friend  of  Lashbridge?  Perhaps  you  have  forgotten 
the  day  when  we  were  at  the  Carlton  and  they  were 
lunching  together  ? " 

This  was  a  new  light  to  Richard.  It  beat  on  his  eyes 
and  made  him  blink. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

He  knew  what  was  in  her  mind.  He  knew  the  question 
that  was  flying  from  her  eyes. 

"Won't  you  feel  somewhat  of  a  fool  if  Lashbridge 
succeeds  in  separating  you  from  me?" 

He  felt  a  fool.  He  cursed  Lashbridge.  But,  after 
all,  that  astute  peer  had  only  precipitated  the  climax. 
His  action  was  really  irrelevant  in  the  drama  of  his 
life. 


RICHARD  AND  GWENDOLEN  337 

She  sounded  the  depths  of  what  she  considered  his 
villainy,  his  cupidity,  and  his  cowardice. 

"Don't  let  us  mince  words,  Richard.     Let  us  quite 
understand  the  situation.     I,  for  one,  am  entitled  to  un- 
derstand it..     Do  you  love  me  as  much  as  ever?"     She 
spoke  with  the  calmness  of  despair. 
"I  love  you  more  than  ever." 
"No  other  woman  has  come  into  your  life?" 
"There  will  never  be  any  other  woman  in   my  life." 
"And  yet  you  can't  wait  two  or  three  years  for  me?" 
"It  is  absolutely  vital  that  I  become  a  K.  C.  now." 
"And  the  course  you  propose  is  never  to  see  me  again  ?" 
"Never,  Heaven  help  me,  to  see  you  again!" 
"And  it  will  be  painful  to  you,  Richard?" 
"It  will  hurt  like "     He  could  not  find  a  compar- 
ison. 

"And  all  this  you  will  do  in  order  to  get  on  in  your 
profession  ?  In  order  to  have  more  opportunities  of  treat- 
ing women  as  you  treated  that  poor  little  woman  in  the 
witness-box?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  refutation. 
"  Do  you  know  that  I'm  suffering  more  than  she  ?  I  am 
suffering  more  than  I  ever  believed  it  could  be  given  to  a 
human  being  to  suffer.  Beside  the  black  darkness  of 
my  grief,  all  other  sorrows  seem  small.  That  little  woman 
who  suffered  at  your  hands  seems  to  me  a  happy  little 
woman.  And,  do  you  know,"  she  spoke  quietly,  weigh- 
ing her  words,  "that  one  of  these  reasons  that  prevent 
me  from  going  mad — yes,  mad,  Richard — is  that  I  know 
you're  doing  the  right  thing — are  behaving  just  in  the 
way  that  you  ought  to  behave — that  I  would  have  ex- 
pected you  to  behave.  This  is  the  result  of  common  sense. 
You  are  weighing  me  in  the  balance  against  your  pro- 
fession, and  you  are  deciding  against  me.  But  do  you 


338  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

know  the  sentence  you  are  pronouncing?  You  are  pro- 
nouncing a  sentence  of  death.  Yes,  of  death,"  she  said. 
"I  can't  exist  without  you.  Oh,  I  know  women  have 
said  this  hundreds  of  times  before!  But  I  very  much 
doubt  if  any  woman  who  has  heard  her  doom  as  I  have 
heard  it  to-night — has  listened  to  it  as  calmly  as  I  have.  Of 
course,  you  must  understand  that  I  feel  bitterly  the  terrible 
insult  of  what  you  say.  I  feel  that  all  the  love  I  have 
wasted  on  you  all  these  years  has  been  in  vain — that  I 
count  for  nothing.  Mind  you,  I  shall  think  of  this  until 
my  death.  I  am  a  wounded,  broken  creature.  But, 
Richard,  I  am  not  dead  yet.  I  know  that  you  are  not 
worth  loving.  I  know  that  no  self-respecting  woman 
would  love  you  after  what  you  have  said.  But,"  she 
turned  rapidly,  and  seized  him  by  the  shoulders;  there 
was  almost  the  strength  of  iron  in  the  little  fingers,  "you 
are  my  Richard — you  are  my  Richard!" 

She  sank  back,  staring  at  him.  Her  frame  quivered, 
and  the  light  glittered  on  the  moving  spangles  of  her 
dress. 

Suddenly  she  stood  erect.  A  wave,  as  it  were,  of 
inspiration  passed  over  her  face,  an  expression  came  into 
her  eyes  almost  of  hideous  determination. 

"Do  you  liear  anything?"  she  said.  "I  think  Wilfred 
is  calling  me." 

She  went  to  the  door. 

Left  alone,  he  sat  with  his  eyes  rivetted  to  the  carpet. 

Then,  for  a  reason  which  he  could  never  afterwards 
explain,  vaguely,  purposelessly,  he  got  up  and  stumbled 
after  her  upstairs. 

When  he  reached  the  half-open  door  of  Wilfred's  room 
he  suddenly  asked  himself  why  he  had  come  there.  He 
scarcely  remembered  having  climbed  the  stairs.  He  stood 
aimlessly  gazing  into  the  room. 


RICHARD  AND  GWENDOLEN  339 

On  the  bed  lay  Wilfred,  his  face  lighted  by  an  electric 
lamp  at  his  side,  his  mouth  contorted  into  a  wry  move- 
ment as  he  placed  an  empty  glass  on  the  bed-table. 

At  the  distant  end  of  the  room  Gwendolen  replaced 
a  medicine  bottle,  which  of  the  many  bottles  on  the 
washhand -stand  her  figure  prevented  him  from  seeing. 
On  her  face,  as  she  turned,  was  an  expression  that  Rich- 
ard would  never  forget.  It  was  an  expression  in  which 
horror,  determination,  and — something  else  were  equally 
depicted. 

The  light  in  that  ill-omened  chamber  was  dim.  In 
his  brain,  too,  was  dimness — lit  up  by  one  lurid  suspicion. 
He  did  not  know  whether  she  could  see  him. 

Somehow  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  drawing-room. 
There  he  flung  himself  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  a  terrible  sight. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  UTILITY  OF  DR.  PLAGDEN 

In  the  silence  he  listened  to  the  ticking  of  the  clock, 
as  he  had  listened  to  the  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  night 
of  Billy's  death.  But  to-night  he  felt  as  Billy  must  have 
felt ;  his  hands  were  cold  and  clammy. 

What  had  happened  in  that  room  upstairs  ?  Had 
anything  happened  at  all  ?  Why  that  look  of  horror  on 
Gwendolen's  face?  Why  the  stealthy  movement  with 
the  white  hand  on  the  green  bottle? 

He  felt  sure  it  was  a  green  one. 

He  tried  to  satisfy  himself  that  she  had  replaced  the 
bottle  on  the  marble  slab  naturally. 

But  there  was  the  look  of  horror. 

Suppose  she  had  accidentally  given  him  the  wrong 
medicine!  Ah!  If  she  had  discovered  it,  by  now  she 
would  have  roused  the  house. 

The  minutes  were  passing;   the  clock  was  ticking. 

Again,  did  she  know?  Had  she  seen  him  as  he  stood 
by  the  door  ? 

A  shrewd  judge  of  character,  a  man  who  in  his  profession 
had  dealt  with  criminals,  who  was  familiar  with  the  ad- 
juncts of  crime  and  all  its  details,  he  felt  that  when  he 
saw  her  again  he  would  know  instinctively  by  her  features 
what  part  she  had  played  in 

"Good  Heavens!     What  a  fool  he  was!" 

He  felt  alarm  for  himself.  Where  had  his  judgment 
gone  to?  What  manner  of  man  was  he?  On  this 
absurd  evidence  to  jump  at  such  a  conclusion!  .  .  .  even 
for  a  moment!  Again  and  again  he  wiped  his  forehead. 


THE  UTILITY  OF  DR.  PLAGDEN  341 

He  walked  to  the  looking-glass  and  examined  his  face. 
It  seemed  to  him  a  very  evil  face.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  lines  of  cruelty  were  carved  on  his  face,  that  his  chin 
stuck  out  more  aggressively  than  ever. 

"Have  I  not  done  the  woman  enough  harm,"  he  said, 
"without  suspecting  her  of  anything  so  grotesque  as 
this?" 

At  that  moment  he  heard  the  rustle  of  her  gown  on  the 
stairs. 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  doors,  wondering  how  they 
would  open,  and  how  she  would  enter. 

She  entered  with  sheer  terror  upon  her  face.  Her  eyes 
stared  straight  from  under  her  curved  eyebrows — her 
lips  were  white,  her  skin  was  waxen. 

She  stood  still  with  her  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

Though  she  was  half  the  length  of  the  room  away 
from  him,  though  she  spoke  in  a  whisper,  the  sound 
travelled  directly  to  him. 

"Wilfred  is  dead." 

"Dead!"  he  echoed. 

Was  she  going  to  say  no  more  than  that  ? 

"Wilfred  is  dead,"  she  repeated. 

In  what  manner  of  tone  had  she  said  those  words? 
Was  this  evidence  of  guilt  or  innocence  ?  he  asked  him- 
self. Was  she  merely  describing  a  horrible  thing  that 
had  happened  ?  That  was  all  he  could  gather  from  her 
voice. 

"Here  am  I,"  he  thought,  "probably  in  the  presence 
of  a  murderess.  It  is  possible  that  she  has  murdered 
that  man.  If  she  is  guilty,  she  will  betray  herself.  Let 
her  speak." 

He  did  not  move  towards  her.  He  stood  deliberately 
still. 

She  was  the  actress.     He  was  the  spectator. 


342  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"Don't  glare  at  me  like  that,"  she  cried.  "Wilfred 
is  dead.  Don't  you  understand  ?  Dead  in  the  room 
upstairs." 

In  one's  heart,  as  in  one's  body,  it  is  not  possible  to 
suffer  two  agonies  at  the  same  moment.  She  did  not 
love  Wilfred.  She  hated  Wilfred.  Wilfred  was  dead. 

Had  he  died  a  natural  death,  the  effect,  beyond  causing 
such  slight  sorrow  as  comes  to  one  on  the  death  of  a  con- 
stant companion,  even  if  that  constant  companion's 
society  is  not  a  source  of  pleasure,  must  have  been  a 
relief  to  Gwendolen.  He  would  not  expect  Wilfred's 
decease  to  overwhelm  her  with  sorrow.  He  himself  had 
just  dealt  her  a  terrible  blow,  by  the  side  of  which  her 
widowhood  was  as  nothing.  Actually,  Wilfred's  death 
solved  the  question  between  them — provided  he  had 
died  a  natural  death. 

She  was  staring  at  him  wild-eyed,  but  she  was  self- 
controlled. 

When  he  had  told  her  that  the  end  of  their  love  was  at 
hand  she  had  possessed  marvellous  self-control. 

From  her  demeanour  he  could  gather  nothing  definite. 
He  could  only  realize  the  horror  of  her  situation. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  abruptly.  "Wilfred  has  had 
no  doctor."  He  walked  towards  her  and  stared  into  her 
face.  "There  will  have  to  be  an  inquest." 

She  understood  what  that  meant. 

"Must  there  be  an  inquest?"  she  asked.  And  she 
only  expressed  the  natural  repugnance  that  is  felt  by  all 
against  the  desecration  of  the  dead. 

"Oh,  can't  you  stop  that?  Can't  you  arrange  that 
there  is  no  inquest?" 

"What  do  you  think  he  died  of?" 

"Medicine,"  she  answered. 

"What   medicine?" 


THE  UTILITY  OF  DR.  PLAGDEN  343 

"Not  one  particular  medicine,  but  all  the  medicines. 
He  used  to  take  an  enormous  number  of  medicines." 

"What  did  you  give  him  last?" 

"  I  don't  know.  He  pointed  it  out  to  me  when  I  went 
upstairs,  It  was  something  in  a  green  bottle." 

"Gwendolen,  it  is  possible  that  what  you  gave  him  in 
that  green  bottle  killed  him.  I  want  to  point  out  to  you 
that  if  there  is  an  inquest — and  there  must  be — your 
position  will  be  serious." 

"Richard,"  she  said,  "you  have  sacrificed  me"  to  your 
profession.  I  suppose  you  have  sufficient  influence 
with  somebody  in  the  right  quarter — I  don't  know  what 
the  right  quarter  is — to  make  an  inquest  unnecessary." 

He    shrugged    his    shoulders. 

"I  can't.  Did  you  see  me  looking  into  the  room  when 
you  were  putting  the  medicine- bottle  back  ?" 

She  hesitated. 

"I'm  not  sure.  I  thought  I  saw  somebody.  Was  it 
you  ?  " 

He  repeated  the  question  to  himself,  "I'm  not  sure. 
I  thought  I  saw  somebody.  Was  it  you?" 

This  answer,  like  all  her  others,  was  consistent  with 
innocence  as  well  as  with  guilt.  But  if  she  was  a  guilty 
woman,  she  was  truly  a  marvellous  actress.  If  she 
was  an  innocent  woman,  she  seemed  to  realise  the  peril 
in  which  she  stood.  Suppose  there  was  an  inquest! 
Suppose  poison  was  found  in  his  body!  Suspicion  would 
point  directly  to  Gwendolen.  His  own  evidence  would 
be  very  damning  to  Gwendolen — not  altogether  creditable 
to  himself.  But  no  one  knew  that  he  was  in  a  position 
to  give  evidence.  He  would  never  give  evidence.  Could 
he  stand  up  in  the  witness-box  at  the  Old  Bailey  and  tell  a 
story  that  might  be  fatal  to  the  woman  he  loved  ?  Fatal, 
even  though  she  were  innocent.  He  shuddered.  Good 


344.  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Heavens!  What  was  he  doing?  Gwendolen  was  in 
dire  peril.  Something  must  be  done,  here  and  now. 
There  must  be  no  inquest.  Guilty  or  innocent,  she 
should  never  undergo  the  tortures  of  a  trial  for  murder. 
But  how  could  an  inquest  be  avoided  ? 

"Quick,"  he  said.  "How  many  servants  have  you 
in  the  house?  What's  the  time?" 

He  looked  at  the  clock.     It  was  a  quarter  past  ten. 

"There  are  five  servants  in  the  house,"  she  answered. 

"Where  do  they  sleep  ?" 

"Upstairs." 

"And  the  footman?" 

"In  the  basement.  I  told  you  that  Younghusband 
had  gone." 

Her  eyes  were  rivetted  on  his  lips. 

He  had  conceived  a  plan.  He  went  to  the  bell  and 
rang  it. 

"When  John  comes  up,  tell  him  to  bring  whiskey  and 
soda,  and  then  tell  him  that  he  can  go  to  bed.  What's 
it  matter  about  reputations  now?  There  are  more 
serious  things  in  the  world  than  the  loss  of  a  reputation." 

When  John  entered,  he  found  Mrs.  Ainslie  sitting,  to 
all  appearance,  calmly  on  the  sofa,  and  Richard  walking 
up  and  down. 

Gwendolen  ordered  the  whiskey  and  soda.  There 
was  silence  till  the  footman  returned. 

Then  Richard  said: 

"Go  up  and  sit  with  your  husband.  Go  up  and  sit 
in  his  bedroom." 

Richard  went  down  to  the  library. 

He  went  to  the  telephone. 

"Are  you  Dr.  Plagden?  ...  I  am  Richard  Meyville. 
.  .  .  This  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  .  .  Something 
quite  out  of  your  line.  ...  It  is  not  what  you  think. 


THE  UTILITY  OF  DR.  PLAGDEX  345 

I  want  you  to  come  round  to  118  Green  Street.  Can 
you  come  now?  It  will  take  you  five  minutes.  But 
you  must  walk.  ...  I  will  be  watching  for  you  from 
the  dining-room  window,  and  I  will  open  the  door." 

In  five  minutes,  from  the  darkness  of  the  dining-room 
he  saw  through  the  blinds  the  bustling  figure  of  Dr. 
Plagden  walking  rapidly  along. 

He  stole  to  the  front  door  and  opened  it  silently.  The 
Doctor  entered.  In  a  professional  manner  he  smiled 
at  Richard.  Then  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  placed  it  on 
the  sixteenth-century  chest  of  drawers.  The  tall  frame 
of  the  barrister  towered  above  him.  He  waited  for 
Richard  to  speak. 

"Come  up  to  the  drawing-room.  You  can  leave 
your  bag  here,"  said  Richard  in  a  whisper. 

Silently  they  walked  up  the  stairs  into  the  brilliantly- 
lighted  room. 

"This  is  a  very  serious  matter,  Doctor  Plagden.  I'm 
going  to  ask  you  a  great  favor.  You're  not  running  any 
risk.  I  want  you  to  understand  that  you're  not  running 
any  risk." 

The  quick,  nervous  manner  in  which  he  spoke  gave 
the  lie  to  the  words  he  uttered.  Plagden  seemed  to  be 
on  his  guard. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Meyville,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  fat 
white  hands  together,  "I'm  under  a  very  great  obligation 
to  you— 

Richard  interposed: 

"I'm  aware  of  that.  Years  ago,  I  forget  how  many, 
I  defended  you  at  Rochester  Row  Police  Court.  You 
were  then  an  obscure  practitioner  in  Maida  Vale.  You 
are  now  making  many  thousands  a  year  in  Grosvenor 
Street." 

The  keen  face  of  the  barrister  was  peering  down  into 


346  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

the  somewhat  flabby,  rubicund  face  of  a  man  who  looked 
more  like  a  successful  farmer  than  an  eminent  ladies' 
doctor. 

Dr.  Plagden  took  three  steps  forward,  placing  his 
hands  behind  his  back. 

"Really,  Mr.  Meyville,  it  is  unnecessary  to  remind  me 
of  that.  Tell  me  what  you  want." 

"I  will  tell  you,"  was  the  answer,  "exactly  so  much  as 
you  need  know." 

"Go  on." 

"By  the  bye, you  don't  know  in  whose  house  you  are, 
do  you?" 

Dr.  Plagden  nodded  an  affirmative,  threw  back  his 
shiny  broadcloth  coat,  and  placed  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
as  though  prepared  for  the  worst. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  gathered  from  your  telephone 
message — 

Richard  stopped  him. 

"Mr.  Ainslie  is  dead.     He  is  lying  dead  upstairs — 

The  Doctor  threw  a  look  of  surprise  at  him : 

"Mr.  Ainslie—" 

"Mr.  Ainslie  was  a  drug-fiend.  He  lived  almost 
entirely  on  medicines  and  never  called  in  a  doctor,  and 
he  has  dosed  himself  to  death.  The  story  will  be  this: 
His  wife  went  to  see  him  shortly  after  ten  to-night,  and 
found  him  dying,  as  she  thought.  I  telephoned  you  to 
come  round,  and  you  were  present  at  his  death.  Is  there 
anything  the  matter  with  that?" 

"That's  all  right.  It  would  be  all  right,"  answered 
Plagden,  "if  it  were  any  other  doctor  but  myself.  You 
know  I'm  a  very  unusual  sort  of  person  to  call  in  for  a 
dying — man." 

Richard   smiled . 

"You  can't  be  suspected.     It's  impossible,  absolutely 


THE  UTILITY  OF  DR.  PLAGDEN  347 

impossible.  Mind  you,  I  take  a  very  keen  interest  in 
this  thing." 

"Precisely." 

"I  understand.  But  you  must  play  your  part  for  all 
you're  worth.  It  must  be  known  that  you  were  in  the 
house.  You're  a  prominent  barrister,  and — 

"I  don't  think  the  Treasury  would  take  any  steps. 
You  needn't  worry  about  that." 

"Yes,  I  think  it's  a  good  story." 

"Does  it  break  down  anywhere,  from  your  point  of 
view?"  asked  Richard. 

"I  can't  say  that  it  does,"  answered  Plagden,  after 
reflection.  Then  he  repeated:  "The  servants  have  all 
gone  to  bed.  You,  as  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  have 
telephoned  to  me  because  I'm  the  nearest  doctor  you 
know.  You  in  your  anxiety  wait  for  me  at  the  door. 
Yes.  I  understand." 

"Anything  else,  Doctor?" 

"Ring  up  the  servants.  Tell  them  their  master  is 
very  ill." 

"Now  we  will  go  upstairs,"  said  Richard. 

He  opened  Wilfred's  bedroom  door,  and  found  Gwen- 
dolen sitting  by  the  bed,  her  face  resting  on  her  palms, 
her  elbows  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  was  staring, 
not  at  the  dead  man,  but  at  a  photograph  of  Richard 
on  the  mantelpiece. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  DEFENCE  OF  GABRIELLE  LEVI 

DAY  dawned  on  Richard  lying  prostrate  on  his  sofa  in 
Hay  Hill;  his  eyes,  encircled  with  deep  brown  lines, 
glared  at  the  rays  of  light  creeping  through  the  blinds. 
Hour  after  hour  he  had  spent  reconstructing  the  scene  in 
Wilfred's  bedroom. 

In  his  mind  he  had  no  doubt  as  to  Gwendolen's  guilt. 

She  had  murdered  her  husband. 

Deliberately,  though  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  she 
had  administered  poison  to  him.  What  that  poison  was 
would  never  be  known. 

Owing  to  his  influence  over  Plagden,  an  inquest  would 
be  avoided. 

What  did  Plagden  think  of  the  matter  ?  Plagden  could 
know  nothing,  for  certain.  Plagden  might  suspect. 
Plagden  could  not  know. 

Assume  that  Wilfred  had  died  from  poison.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  taking  poison.  Gwendolen  might 
have  given  him — innocently — an  overdose.  He  felt  that 
it  would  be  useless  for  him  to  interview  the  doctor  on  the 
subject.  Whatever  his  view  was,  it  would  not  be  con- 
clusive to  Richard.  And  as  to  Gwendolen!  To  her  he 
could  put  no  question. 

In  the  grey  dawn  he  understood  the  hideous  sentence 
he  was  passing  upon  himself.  If  she  were  wiped  out  from 
his  life  what,  in  God's  name,  was  there  to  live  for  ?  What 
did  his  profession  matter  now  ?  The  best  work  that  a  man 
does  is  always  done  for  the  sake  of  a  woman.  If  it  be 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  GABRIELLE  LEVI     349 

not  for  a  definite  woman,  it  is  done  in  the  hope  that 
some  day  that  work  will  win  for  him  the  ideal  of  his 
heart.  Richard  had  found  his  ideal.  Hacl  his  ideal  blood- 
stained hands? 

He  rose  wearily  from  the  sofa,  and  walked  languidly 
to  the  mantelpiece. 

His  watch  had  stopped.  It  was  eight  o'clock.  Then 
he  fell  back  into  the  arm-chair. 

There  his  man  found  him  shortly  afterwards. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  scared  face  of  the  servant 
and  a  husky  whisper: 

"Oh,  sir,  I  thought  you  were  dead!" 

There  was  no  answer  in  the  blank  eyes. 

"Can  I  get  you  anything,  sir?" 

"What's  the  time?" 

"Getting  on  for  half-past  eight,  sir." 

"Get  me  a  brandy  and  soda,  half  brandy  and  half 
soda.  What  day  of  the  week  is  it?"  Without  waiting 
for  a  reply,  he  said,  "I've  got  to  do  something  to-day. 
I've  got  some  work  on  to-day,  haven't  I?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  answered  the  startled  man.  "I 
suppose  you've  got  to  go  down  to  the  Temple,  as  usual, 
if  you're  well  enough,  but — 

"Do  you  know,  Andrews, "  said  Richard,  raising  him- 
self and  gripping  the  arms  of  his  chair,  "my  memory 
seems  to  have  gone." 

"You're  looking  very  ill,  sir." 

Now  Andrews,  who  had  been  in  the  service  of  many 
brilliant  young  men,  had  considerable  experience  of  the 
results  of  dissipation.  But  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  ap- 
pearances were  terribly  against  Richard,  his  servant  saw 
that  his  prostration  was  the  result  of  a  terrible  disaster. 

Suddenly  Richard  sprang  at  him. 

"Andrews,"  he  said,   "you're  a  man  of  the  world. 


350  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

If  you  were  in  love  with  a  woman,  and  she  murdered 
her  husband,  quick — say — would  you  marry  her?" 

Andrews  shrank  back.  Was  his  master  mad,  he  asked 
himself  ?  There  was  a  glitter  in  his  eyes  that  was  scarcely 
sane. 

Andrews  temporised. 

"I  can't  very  well  imagine  myself  being  in  love  with 
a  married  lady,  sir.  But  if  I  was  in  love  with  a  married 
lady  and  she  murdered  her  husband,  well,  I  don't  know, 
sir,  what  I  should  do." 

Richard  threw  himself  back  in  the  chair: 

"God,  what  a  fool  I  am!"  he  said.  "I'm  talking 
nonsense. " 

"Yes,  sir,"  assented  Andrews. 

But  he  seemed  interested  in  the  strange  problem  pro- 
pounded by  his  master. 

"There  are  many  people  who  naturally  would  not 
like  to  marry  a  woman  who  had  murdered  her  first 
husband.  But,  I  think,  sir,  the  second  husband  would 
be  quite  safe.  I  don't  suppose  that  it  often  happens 
that  a  woman  murders  two  husbands." 

"Pull  up  the  blinds,  Andrews.  What  the  devil  do 
I  look  like?" 

"Excuse  my  saying  so,  sir,  but  you're  looking  very 
ill,  and  you  certainly  do,  if  you'll  excuse  me  saying  so, 
sir,  act  uncommon  queer."  Suddenly  he  said:  "Aren't 
you  defending  the  French  murderess  at  the  Old  Bailey 
to-day,  sir?" 

"Good  heavens!  Am  I?  I  seem  to  have  forgotten 
everything  that  happened  before  last  night." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know  you  are,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it. 
There  is  a  picture  of  you  alongside  of  the  woman  in  this 
morning's  Mirror.  The  Mirror  is  my  paper  you  know, 
sir,"  he  explained. 


THE   DEFENCE  OF  GABRIELLE  LEVI     351 

"Quick,  get  me  that  brandy." 

When  Andrews  had  gone,  he  went  to  the  mirror. 

"I'm  ghastly  pale,  and  I'm  dog-tired.  I  haven't  a 
muscle  in  my  legs.  How  the  devil  am  I  to  talk  to  a 
jury  to-day?" 

And  yet,  at  10.30  that  morning  would  begin  a  tragic 
struggle  for  life  and  death.  He  was  in  no  fit  state  to 
appear  for  Gabrielle  Levi,  and  his  junior  was  entirely 
incapable  of  performing  that  uphill  task.  No  doubt, 
John  could  arrange  with  Kemble,  who  was  prosecuting, 
to  have  the  case  adjourned.  But  how  could  he  remain 
that  entire  day  alone  in  his  flat?  He  couldn't  face  his 
own  thoughts.  If  he  could  go  down  to  the  Old  Bailey, 
and  talk  and  talk  until  he  died — that  would  be  a  fitting 
termination  to  his  career.  If  he  could  have  died  as  he 
stood  looking  through  half-closed  eyes  at  his  reflection, 
he  would  have  desired  that  death. 

When  Andrews  returned,  he  took  the  brandy  and  soda 
from  the  tray. 

It  revived  him,  and  shortly  afterwards  he  staggered  to 
the  bathroom.  He  cut  himself,  shaving.  His  hands  were 
trembling  and  damp.  He  felt  that  he  was  on  the  verge 
of  a  fever.  Then  he  jumped  into  a  cab  and  drove  to  a 
hairdresser's  in  Bond  Street,  where  he  was  properly  shaved 
and  shampooed.  Then  he  thought  he  would  walk  to 
the  Temple.  But  he  was  too  nervous  to  walk.  Again 
he  got  into  a  cab  and  drove  down. 

He  found  John  in    his  room. 

John  stared  at  him,  without  concealing  his  alarm. 

"Something  has  happened,  sir,"  he  said  instantly.  He 
did  not  make  the  error  of  assuming  that  Richard  was  ill. 
"What  is  it,  sir?" 

But  Richard  did  not  answer. 

"It  isn't  Mrs.—  "     But  he  got  no  further. 


352  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

John  made  a  great  effort. 

"It's  all  over  the  Temple,  sir,  that  the  Chancellor  has 
refused  you  silk  because  of— 

"Go  on,"  said  Richard,  in  a  dry  voice. 

"Because  of — Mrs.  Ainslie." 

"Mr.  Ainslie,"  answered  Richard,  "is  dead." 

The  tone  prohibited  further  conversation. 

There  were  fifteen  questions  on  the  tip  of  John's  tongue, 
now  that  he  had  dared  to  put  the  first.  But  he  did  not 
venture  to  put  one  of  them. 

At  last  Richard  spoke : 

"I've  got  to  defend  this  woman  at  the  Old  Bailey." 

"You're  not  in  a  fit  state,  sir.  I  can  run  up  to  Mr. 
Kemble's  clerk  and  have  the  case  adjourned." 

'  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.     I'll  defend  the  woman, 
if  I  die  for  it." 

He  felt  that  if  he  threw  himself  at  the  storm  and  stress 
of  the  great  fight,  he  would  find  in  this  well-nigh  impossi- 
ble task  a  few  hours'  oblivion  from  his  agony.  He  would 
like  to  toil  at  that  case  until  his  strength  was  exhausted; 
until  sleep  or  death,  or  drink  or  morphia  came. 

"I  must  do  this  case,"  he  said.  "I  don't  think  I  shall 
do  it  very  well.  I've  got  to  do  it,  John.  And,  my  God!" 
he  thundered,  "I  will  do  it  well!" 

He  rose. 

"He  will  look  worse  with  his  wig  on, "  reflected  the  clerk, 
as  they  strode  out  together  into  Essex  Court. 

In  the  cold,  crisp  morning  air  they  walked  along 
Fleet  Street. 

Suddenly  Richard  went  into  a  newspaper  shop  and,  to 
his  clerk's  surprise,  purchased  a  copy  of  the  Daily  Mirror. 

"She  is  rather  pretty,"  he  said  absent-mindedly,  as 
he  left  the  paper  on  the  counter. 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  GABRIELLE  LEVI     353 

"Who  is,  sir?"  inquired  John  in  surprise. 

"Gabrielle  Levi,"  he  answered.  "Murderesses,"  he 
added,  "are  nearly  always  pretty.  I  suppose  the  most 
beautiful  women  are  always  bad." 

"  If  you  ask  me,  sir,  and — mind  you — I  have  been  par- 
ticularly fortunate  in  my  own  experience,  all  women  are 
wrong  'uns,  wrong  'uns;  wrong  from  A  to  Z." 

"I  suppose  they  are, "replied  Richard  grimly.  "Now 
we  will  get  into  a  cab." 

At  the  Old  Bailey,  he  threw  all  his  energy  into  the 
defence  of  the  murderess.  He  fought  for  her  as  he  would 
have  fought  for  Gwendolen.  He  was  aggressive,  even 
unmannerly.  He  turned  on  Kemble  and  rent  him.  Every 
now  and  then  the  little  barrister  sitting  next  to  him  peered 
at  him  curiously  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  "What  the 
dickens  is  the  matter  with  Meyville?"  he  asked  himself. 

He  himself  had  opened  for  the  prosecution,  asking  only 
for  a  verdict  of  manslaughter.  It  had  been  a  kindly. 
judicial  opening.  And  yet  Richard  had  alluded  to  it  in* 
his  cross-examination  as  violent  and  unfair. 

Little  Kemble  was  puzzled. 

"Why  should  he  take  such  a  vast  and  apparently  person- 
al interest  in  the  defendant?" 

There  were  few  witnesses  to  call;  the  case  was  in  a  nut- 
shell. Kemble  had  whispered  to  Richard:  "Are  you  go- 
ing to  put  the  prisoner  in  the  box?" 

Richard  had  cursed  him;  had  told  him  to  mind  his 
own  business. 

"Very  well,"  Kemble  had  answered. 

Richard's  speech,  a  masterpiece  of  eloquence,  of  furious, 
impassioned  pleading,  astounded  the  court.  He  had  been 
able  to  extract  little  evidence  of  a  favourable  nature  from 
the  witnesses  for  the  prosecution.  But  these  molehills  he 
made  into  mountains.  He  explained  to  the  iury  the  vast 


354  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

responsibility  he  took  upon  his  shoulders  by  not  placing 
the  prisoner  in  the  box.  He  told  them  he  gladly  took 
that  responsibility,  that  had  he  placed  her  in  the  witness- 
box  he  would  have  her  death  upon  his  conscience.  "Here 
was  a  woman,"  he  said,  "a  stranger,  being  tried  for  her 
life.  She  had  been  in  prison  for  weeks.  The  man  she  loved, 
the  hideous  monster  whom  she  loved,  who  had  lived  upon 
her  shame,  was  dead.  After  the  agony  of  these  weeks  in 
prison,  in  what  condition  was  she  to  stand  up  in  that  box 
and  fight  against  the  wits  of  the  most  brilliant  cross-ex- 
aminer at  the  English  Bar?  What  chance  had  she,  a 
Frenchwoman,  speaking  English  but  little,  what  chance 
had  she  against  a  man  like  Kemble?  "Why,"  he  cried, 
"If  I  myself  were  accused  of  murder,  do  you  think  that 
I,  even  with  my  knowledge  of  the  law,  such  as  it  is,  after 
weeks  of  terrible  anguish,  would  be  in  a  fit  state  to  fight 
against  the  merciless  acumen  of  my  learned  friend  ?  The 
whole  of  his  brilliant  career  he  has  devoted  to  the  study 
of  the  weaknesses  of  people  on  trial.  I  should  be  a  criminal 
did  I  allow  Gabrielle  Levi  to  place  herself  at  the  mercy  of 
that  ruthless  bra;n." 

On  and  on  he  went,  gradually  confusing  the  issue  until 
it  appeared  to  the  mystified  jury  that  it  was  the  Prisoners' 
Evidence  Act  that  was  on  its  trial  and  not  the  woman  in 
the  dock.  By  his  eloquence,  he  reduced  her  to  tears. 
A  fine-looking  woman,  with  a  square  white  face  and  huge 
pathetic  eyes,  she  sobbed  at  the  burning  words  that  came 
from  his  lips. 

Suddenly  the  judge  interrupted. 

"Gabrielle,"  he  said. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord." 

"I  only  reminded  you  that  the  prisoner's  name  is 
Gabrielle.  Several  times  you  have  called  her  Gwen- 
dolen." 


THE   DEFENCE  OF  GABRIELLE   LEVI     355 

A  sudden  change  came  over  Richard.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  erect,  seeking  speech.  Then  his  eyes  vaguely 
wandered  to  the  dock. 

Two  or  three  times  he  began  to  speak: 

"My  lord— my  lord—" 

Then  his  frame  shook.  He  had  come  to  the  end  of 
his  speech,  but  he  could  not  end  it.  There  was  nothing 
more  to  say,  except  to  add  the  peroration,  but  practically 
his  whole  speech  had  been  peroration. 

The  last  time  he  said  "My  lord,"  his  voice,  through 
dry  lips,  was  scarcely  audible. 

Kemble  rose  to  support  him.  But  he  was  too  late. 
His  gaunt  body  fell  heavily  forward  across  the  desk. 

t  £  $  £  .  4> 

When  he  recovered  consciousness  in  the  robing-room, 
he  asked  the  doctor  bending  over  him  what  was  the 
verdict. 

"Not  guilty  on  all  counts." 

Then  he  swooned  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE    FUNERAL 

OBVIOUSLY  Richard  must  attend  the  funeral.  Wilfred 
had  been  an  old  friend  of  his,  and  although  he  had  racked 
his  brain  for  reasons  that  might  excuse  his  attendance, 
a  certain  insuperable  instinct  compelled  him  to  go  to 
Green  Street. 

The  demeanour  of  Gwendolen  would  be  of  great 
importance.  By  her  manner  he  felt  that  he  would  be 
able  to  arrive  at  a  sure  conclusion  with  regard  to  her 
innocence  or  guilt  in  the  matter  of  her  husband's  death. 
Although  he  had  in  his  own  mind  decided  that  Wilfred's 
death  had  been  due  to  her,  yet  a  certain  craving  possessed 
him  to  see  her  in  a  moment  of  extraordinary  difficulty. 

Guilty  she  was  beyond  doubt.  But  how  would  she 
wear  her  air  of  innocence? 

In  the  drawing-room  he  found  Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce, 
various  relatives,  complete  strangers  to  him,  and  Lash- 
bridge.  In  the  middle  of  a  sympathetic  crowd  was 
Gwendolen.  Instantly  on  that  fair  face  he  believed 
that  he  saw  an  ideal  representation  of  Remorse  fleeing 
from  Crime. 

Her  black-clad  figure  rose  to  meet  him. 

He  had  a  presentiment  that  when  he  gripped  her  hand 
the  touch  of  it  would  prove  beyond  all  possibility  of 
speculation  her  guilt. 

But  the  touch  proved  nothing. 

She  had  changed  in  no  degree.  If  she  were  a  murderess 
now,  she  had  always  been  a  murderess.  If  ever  she  had 


THE  FUNERAL  357 

been  a  white-souled  woman,  she  was  a  white-souled 
woman  now. 

The  women,  who  had  come  by  way  of  questioning 
her,  were  talking  nonsense;  they  were  talking  nonsense 
in  the  house  of  tragedy.  A  grief  that  is  a  grief  is  a  topic 
too  sacred  for  words.  A  smile  of  cynicism  flitted  over 
his  drawn  lips. 

"These  women  are  sympathising  with  a  woman  because 
she  has  effected  her  purpose,"  he  thought. 

Lashbridge  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"What  did  you  say  to  her?"  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  say  anything.     What  could  I  say?" 

Then,  putting  the  question  directly  to  the  other: 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  congratulated   her." 

"On  what,  may  I  ask?"  inquired  Richard. 

"She  understood." 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said  coldly. 

Lashbridge  drew  him  aside. 

"I  suppose  you're  going  to  marry  her,  aren't  you?" 

"What  the  devil  has  that  to  do  with  you?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing,"  he  answered  smiling.  "Since 
you  ask  so  pointedly,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with — me. 
But  it  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  you.  You're  in  a  deuced 
bad  temper.  And,  by  gad!  you're  looking  devilish  ill." 

"Telling  a  man  that  he's  looking  ill  never  makes  him 
feel  any  better,"  replied  the  other. 

"Do  you  know,  Richard,  that  I  think  you're  paying 
a  very  big  price  for  your  success.  Every  success  is 
bought  at  a  huge  price.  But  you're  paying  more  than 
you  need.  A  year  ago  you  were  a  young-looking  man; 
you  were  in  love,  you  were  happy,  and  you  had  a  future 
before  you.  Now  you've  got  your  future,  and  you  look  as 
old  as  a  judge — and  nothing  ever  looks  as  old  as  a  judge." 


358  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Suddenly  he  added:  "Mrs.  Paxton-Pryce  is  a  very 
unpleasant  woman.  She  takes  rather  an  interest  in  me. 
I  think  it  is  probably — and  I'm  not  saying  this  out  of 
vanity — because  I'm  a  peer.  Do  you  know  that  if  ever 
it  happens — and,  thank  heavens,  it  happens  very  rarely — 
that  I  am  introduced  to  a  Bayswater  woman  I  have  an 
unpleasant  thrill  ?  And,  mind  you,  all  the  Bayswater 
people  don't  live  in  Bayswater.  I've  come  across  people 
in  Kensington,  and  even  in  Mayfair,  who  are  pure,  pure 
Bayswater.  The  death  of  Wilfred  is  very  sad." 

Richard  could  not  understand  what — if  anything —  the 
man  was  driving  at. 

"When  will  you  be  married?  I  suppose  you'll  wait  a 
year.  I  shouldn't  have  said  'wait'  a  year;  but  I  suppose 
you  won't  be  married  for  a  year?" 

Richard  looked  earnestly  at  him.  Then  he  said  a 
thing  which  surprised  him  even  as  the  words  came  from 
his  lips.  It  seemed  to  him  incredible  that  he  was  uttering 
them. 

"I'm  not  going  to  marry  her.  But  I  see  no  reason 
why  you  shouldn't.  I  am  very,  very  much  indebted 
to  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me,  for  all  the  efforts  you 
made  towards  helping  me,  and  especially  in  the  matter 
of  the  Great  Southern  Railway." 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  was  so  clear,  so  contemp- 
tuous, that  it  was  as  a  deliberate  blow  in  Lashbridge's  face. 
It  was  an  insult  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  promise  of 
happiness  unhoped  for.  The  blow  he  scarcely  resented. 

"Do  you  seriously  mean  to  say  that  you're  not  going 
to  marry  her?"  he  enquired,  with  eager  surprise. 

"  One  does  not  say  a  thing  of  that  sort  unless  one  means 
it  seriously.  I  shall  never  marry  Mrs.  Ainslie." 

For  some  seconds  the  men  stood  looking  intently  at  each 


THE  FUNERAL  359 

other.  "Was  it  possible,"  thought  Lashbridge,  "that 
the  barrister  meant  what  he  said?" 

Here  was  Gwendolen  with  an  income  of  at  least 
,£20,000  a  year,  with  her  beauty  intact,  with  her  devotion 
notorious.  And  Richard  thrust  Gwendolen  aside!  What 
could  there  be  behind  this  ?  True,  Richard  was  looking 
terribly  ill.  He  was  worn  and  nervous.  But  he  had 
loved  the  woman  for  many  years.  He  had  just 
achieved  a  colossal,  almost  unexampled  triumph.  He 
was  in  a  position  to  do  anything  at  the  Bar,  and  he  was 
doing  most  things.  Here  was  a  man  who  was  strenu- 
ously fighting  his  way  to  the  high  places  of  the  world. 
For  what  possible  reason  could  he  have  decided  not  to 
marry  Gwendolen  ? 

Then  Lashbridge  did  a  thing  that  he  never  could  have 
anticipated — a  thing  that  he  never  afterwards  regarded 
as  characteristic  of  himself.  He  took  Richard's  arm, 
and  drew  him  towards  himself  until  their  faces  met. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "you  and  I  are  in 
love  with  the  same  woman.  That  good  point  is  about 
the  only  point  we  have  in  common.  She  worships  you. 
She  will  never  care  for  me — in  that  way.  If  I  had  met  her 
first,  I  believe  I  could  have  made  her  love  me.  But  you 
have  met  her,  and  she  will  love  you  to  the  end!"  Tight- 
ening his  grip,  he  said:  "You  are  a  blackguard  if  you 
don't  marry  her." 

"You  use  the  word  'blackguard',"  said  Richard. 
"It  is  hardly  the  word  to  use." 

Though  he  had  complete  control  of  his  voice,  and  the 
words  came  with  such  intensitythat  a  blow  seemed  bound  to 
follow,  yet,  as  Lashbridge  looked  in  his  face,  his  expres- 
sion was  out  of  keeping  with  his  speech.  There  was  no 
fire  in  his  eyes;  there  was  a  quiver  about  his  mouth. 

"Look   here!"   said    Richard   suddenly.     "I'm   never 


360  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

going  to  see  her  after  to-day.  She  likes  you.  She's  a 
woman  who  must  be  loved.  She  is  a  woman  who  deserves 
— well,  God  knows  what !  She  could  get  on  well  with  you, 
and  she's  got  to  be  married  to  somebody — to  somebody. 
Qui  a  aim6  aimera.  You  marry  her,  Lashbridge." 

"You're  the  most  extraordinary  person  I've  ever  met," 
exclaimed  the  other. 

"You're  quite  wrong  there,"  replied  Richard.  "Gwen- 
dolen is  the  most  extraordinary  person  you've  ever  met." 
****** 

Cold  and  damp  and  grey. 

The  funeral  procession,  almost  comic  in  its  assumption 
of  tragedy,  proceeded  with  unconvincing  dignity  towards 
Kensal  Green.  Lashbridge  took  Richard  in  his  limou- 
sine. In  the  heart  of  each  man  was  the  same  question: 
"What  is  Gwendolen  thinking  about?" 

Richard  pictured  her  silent  in  calm  dignity  sitting 
motionless  by  her  mother's  side. 

Lashbridge,  completely  mystified  by  the  situation, 
hoped  against  hope  that  she  was  giving  him  a  single 
thought. 

Slowly  the  black  snake  of  woe  turned  into  Westbourne 
Terrace  from  the  Bayswater  Road. 

Gwendolen,  in  very  truth,  was  in  a  delirium  of  happi- 
ness. It  gave  her  almost  acute  pleasure  to  notice  any 
sign  of  joy  on  the  face  of  a  passer-by.  But  on  that 
grim,  dark  day  traces  of  merriment  were  indeed  hard  to 
find.  She  only  saw  pinched  faces  and  blue  lips.  It  was 
a  day  of  death;  the  living  seemed  moribund.  In  front 
of  a  house  with  a  bright  red  door  were  a  man  and  his 
wife,  who  had  returned  from  their  ride  in  the  Park.  He, 
a  military,  good-looking  man,  was  laughing  into  the  eyes 
of  a-  handsome  woman  full  of'  life.  "There,  indeed,  is 
happiness!"  she  said  to  herself.  And  then  there  floated 


THE  FUNERAL  361 

before  her  mind  the  faces  of  Richard  and  herself.  Some 
day  they,  too,  would  return  from  the  Park  in  the  morning, 
aglow  with  the  pleasure  of  the  ride.  And  just  in  this 
way  he  would  look  into  her  eyes.  How  proud  would  she 
be  of  his  admiration!  How  proud  she  would  be  to  be 
admired  by  so  strong  a  man!  That  man  who,  by  the 
power  of  his  eloquence,  could  snatch  the  guilty  from  the 
jaws  of  death;  that  strong,  grim  man,  tender  only  to 
her — only  to  her. 

A  smile  flitted  about  her  lips.  Nothing  could  come 
between  them.  She  had  devoted  her  life  to  him.  Ever 
since  she  had  met  him  she  had  done  all  in  her  power — for 
him. 

And  now  she  looked  confidently  forward  to  her  reward. 
She  thought  nothing  of  the  stark,  cold  man  lying  in  the 
hearse  in  front  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

ILLNESS 

ON  the  evening  of  that  day  Gwendolen  was  alone  in 
the  drawing-room. 

Seated  in  front  of  the  fire,  she  felt  no  sense  of  warmth. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  though  the  windows  were  open  and 
that  a  cold  breath  passed  to  her  bones.  With  a  quivering 
hand  she  poked  the  fire.  Suddenly  she  felt  a  curious 
shiver,  more  like  ice  than  any  sensation  she  had  felt 
before.  It  seemed  as  though  a  piece  of  ice  had  been 
dropped  down  the  back  of  her  dress. 

It  dawned  upon  her  that  she  had  got  a  chill  when 
standing  by  her  husband's  grave. 

What  a  fool  she  had  been  to  go!  Why  had  she  ever 
gone  to  the  funeral  ?  Yet  she  was  satisfied  in  her  own 
mind  that  she  should  have  gone  to  it. 

It  was  half-past  nine. 

She  rang  for  tea.  But  it  did  not  warm  her  shivering 
body,  unnaturally  cold.  It  struck  her  that  a  good  night's 
rest  might  put  her  right. 

But  there  was  no  good  night's  rest  for  her.  She  slept 
uneasily  for  half-hours  at  a  time,  and  woke  unrefreshed 
in  the  morning. 

Leah,  assiduous  and  conciliatory,  dressed  her  with 
attentions  that  were  more  irksome  than  neglect. 

Throughout  the  morning  there  was  a  dull,  aching 
pain  in  her  right  side.  She  had  a  presentiment  of  coming 
illness.  The  presentiment  oppressed  her,  though  she 
tried  to  convince  herself  that  she  was  only  suffering  from 
a  trifling  chill. 


ILLNESS  363 

Woarily  enough  she  received  that  afternoon  a  visit 
from  her  solicitor.  But  it  was  beyond  her  power  to 
take  any  interest  in  his  statements.  She  gathered  only, 
and  without  the  slightest  feeling  of  pleasure,  that,  finan- 
cially, everything  was  extremely  well  with  her. 

Early  that  night  she  went  to  bed. 

Leah,  in  the  morning,  urged  her  to  send  for  a  doctor. 
But  she,  a  woman  who  had  never  been  seriously  ill, 
had  such  confidence  in  her  physical  strength  that  she 
felt  determined  to  thrust  off  the  black  terror  that  pos- 
sessed her. 

Leah,  conscious  that  she  was  giving  good  advice, 
chided  her  mistress  almost  pettishly  for  her  refusal. 

Most  of  the  next  day  she  spent  lying  on  the  sofa 
in  intense  discomfort.  Every  hour  or  so  she  tele- 
phoned to  Richard,  but  she  never  got  nearer  to  him  than 
John. 

The  unfailing  answer  always  was: 

"Mr.  Meyville  is  out." 

"Will  you  tell  him  that  I'm  very  ill,  and  that  I  want 
him  to  come  and  see  me  at  once?" 

"I  will  give  him  your  message,  madam." 

But  somehow  she  had  little  confidence  in  John.  She 
knew  he  was  hostile. 

At  half-past  six  she  rang  up  again. 

This  time  the  clerk  answered  that  Mr.  Meyville  had 
gone. 

Then  she  rang  him  up  at  Hay  Hill,  and  his  manservant 
replied  that  he  was  dining  out,  dressing  at  his  club. 

She  thought  it  all  very  curious. 

She  tried  to  read,  but  could  not. 

Why  didn't  Richard  come?  His  Jbehaviour  was  mon- 
strous. 

She  walked  to  the  mirror  and  looked  at  herself.     Her 


364,  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

eyes  were  very  bright,  and  her  face  seemed  rather  drawn 
and  pale.  She  looked  terribly  ill,  she  thought.  And  yet 
the  pain  she  suffered  was  not  such  as  to  warrant  that 
strange  glitter  in  her  eyes,  that  pallor  of  her  cheeks. 
But  the  act  of  walking  was  anguish.  Six  times  at  least 
she  rang  up  Richard  from  her  bed  that  night. 

Sudden  horror  seized  her  as  she  realised  that  he  must 
have  deliberately  taken  off  the  receiver;  that  he  intended 
to  cut  himself  off  from  communication  with  her.  She 
started  up  in  bed  with  staring  eyes  and  met  the  horror 
of  the  idea. 

Soaked  with  perspiration,  she  lay  back  on  her  pillow, 
and  great  sobs  shook  her  frame  for  a  period  that  seemed 
hours,  leaving  her  limp  and  exhausted.  She  lay  with 
her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  her  body  convulsively 
pressing  upon  the  sheets.  He  had  forsaken  her — after 
all  she  had  done.  It  was  the  cruelty  of  a  coward.  He 
didn't  dare  to  say  that  he  had  forsaken  her;  he  simply 
cut  her  out  of  his  life. 

She  would  dress  and  go  to  his  rooms.  She  would 
dress  at  once.  What  was  the  time  ?  It  was  five  o'clock. 

And  still  the  aching  continued.  It  seemed  that  her 
bones,  shivering  and  rasping,  were  struggling  to  get 
away  from  the  flesh. 

Five  o'clock!  Good  heavens!  She  must  wait  hours 
before  she  could  get  up !  Would  she  be  able  to  get  up  ? 
How  if  she  were  dying?  At  the  thought  she  remained 
still  and  frightened.  Would  the  day  never  come?  This 
was  not  death.  This — and  she  faced  the  fact — was  the 
beginning  of  fearful  suffering.  A  horrible  illness  was 
threatening  her.  She  turned  on  the  light  and  faced  the 
situation.  It  was  vital  for  her  to  be  well  now.  In  fury 
she  beat  the  pillow  with  b^r  clenched  hands.  Of  all 


ILLNESS  365 

moments  in  her  life  this  was  the  least  suitable  for  an 
illii* 

"Richard,  Richard!"  she  cried,  "come  to  me!" 

There  was  he,  no  distance  off,  in  bed  asleep. 

AVhy  couldn't  she  communicate  with  him  ?  The  tele- 
phone, that  had  so  often  brought  them  together,  seemed 
now  to  place  them  further  apart.  Fiercely  she  rang  at 
the  machine.  But  the  same  answer  came  back,  "We 
can't  make  them  hear,  madam." 

Then,  maddened  by  the  recollection  of  many  delir- 
ious conversations  with  him,  of  words  of  love,  words  of 
passion,  words  of  exquisite  intimacy  that  had  reached 
her  in  that  bed,  the  tears  came.  But  tears  brought  no 
relief.  She  scarcely  knew  that  she  was  crying.  But  she 
knew  that  she  was  in  terrible  agony.  A  peculiar  sharp 
and  gnawing  pain  held  her  in  its  grip. 

At  eight  o'clock  Leah,  inquisitively  kind,  brought  her 
a  cup  of  tea. 

"Madame,"  she  said  firmly,  "must  see  a  doctor  im- 
mediately." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered.  "But  who?"  For  years 
she  had  not  seen  a  doctor.  Suddenly  the  thought  of 
Doctor  Onslowe-Bond  occurred  to  her,  the  family  doctor 
of  the  Paxton-Pryces.  Yes,  she  would  see  Onslowe-Bond. 
She  telephoned  to  him,  and  waited  in  a  kind  of  dull  and 
patient  anxiety  for  his  arrival. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  came,  a  man  of  military  appearance, 
with  a  black  moustache  and  a  bald  head.  He  looked 
more  like  a  major  than  a  medical  man. 

Earnestly  and  with  accuracy  and  restraint,  wonderful 
in  a  woman,  she  described  her  symptoms. 

He  took  her  temperature,  and  she  saw  by  the  expression 
in  his  eyes  that  he  regarded  her  case  as  grave. 

"Tell  me  exactly  what's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 


366  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"It's  a  feverish  chill,  Gwendolen,  that's  all.  Oh,  I 
beg  your  pardon,"  he  added,  a  smile  breaking  out  on 
his  face;  "that  takes  us  many  years  back,  doesn't  it?" 

He  wrote  a  prescription,  and  said  he  would  return 
later. 

After  two  doses  of  the  medicine  her  pain  grew  less. 
To  her  thinking,  the  matter  appeared  less  serious,  and 
for  a  few  hours  she  was  almost  hopeful. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  two  strong  doses  of  phenacetin 
had  reduced  her  temperature;  but  only  for  the  time. 
This  made  her  fancy  she  was  better. 

When  Onslowe-Bond  returned  in  the  evening  he 
seemed  agreeably  surprised  at  the  improvement,  called 
her  a  "marvel,"  and  said  that  she  yielded  most  satis- 
factorily to  treatment. 

"You'll  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Ainslie.  I  think  I  was  a  little  alarmed  at  your  temper- 
ature when  I  found  it  so  high,  but  it's  going  down  nicely 
now. " 

He  then  gave  her  a  few  directions  and  left  her. 

The  same  evening  the  pain  returned  with  renewed 
intensity,  and  she  passed  a  night  of  torture. 

She  was  now  convinced  that  she  was  worse  than  On- 
slowe-Bond believed. 

She  passed  a  restless  night  in  pain  and  fear. 

When  the  doctor  came  next  morning  he  took  a  different 
view.  He  was  more  serious. 

"Doctor,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  exactly 
what  the  matter  is.  You  know  that  I  don't  enjoy  being 
ill.  I  take  no  Bayswater  view  of  illness.  I  don't  think  it's 
smart.  But  if  I  am  in  for  an  illness  I  want  to  rely  on 
you  to  let  me  know  exactly  what  is  occurring." 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said.  "I  understand 
your  character;  your  character  has  not  changed  much 


ILLNESS  367 

since  the  old  'Gwendolen '  day,  has  it  ?  You  were  always 
a  favourite  patient  of  mine." 

A  grim  smile  played  round  her  lips. 

"I  don't  like  that  sort  of  popularity." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "you've  got  some  slight 
internal  inflammation." 

Then  he  gave  her  orders  and  prescriptions. 

"Although  you  will  be  only  laid  up  for  a  few  days,  you 
must  have  a  trained  nurse." 

In  response  to  the  look  of  alarm  in  her  eyes,  he  assured 
her  that  he  always  advised  a  nurse,  even  for  the  slightest 
ailment.  A  nurse  was  so  useful  and  such  a  comfort;  no 
maid  could  do  as  well  as  she,  and  she  must  not  spend  an- 
other night  alone. 

"I  shall  come  back,"  he  said,  "early  this  afternoon." 

A  few  hours  later  he  returned. 

"Mrs.  Ainslie, "  said  he,  "I've  brought  with  me  Sir 
Dibley  Niall.  Mind  you,  I  daresay  I'm  wasting  your 
money,  but  that's  hardly  a  matter  for  consideration.  It 
will  be  satisfactory  for  you,  I  am  sure,  to  have  the  best 
man." 

"Oh,  how  right  you  are!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  he's 
the  best  man,  is  he?" 

"Beyond  all  doubt." 

Niall,  a  benevolent  old  man,  intensely  clean,  imme- 
diately found  favour  in  her  sight.  Obviously  he  was  a 
man  of  brain.  Plainly,  also,  Bond  had  given  him  a 
description  of  the  patient's  temperament. 

The  two  men  seemed  to  regard  her  less  as  an  invalid 
than  as  a  collaborator.  They  tried  various  tests,  and  then 
Niall  pronounced  that  she  was  very  ill,  whether  with 
peritonitis  or  appendicitis  was  not  yet  clear. 

In  spite  of  the  terror  of  the  blow,  the  pale  lips  framed  a 
smile: 


3(58  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"I  suppose  it  isn't  possible  that  I  could  have  both,  is 
it?" 

The  specialist  patted  her  hand,  and  assured  her  that 
it  was  not  likely. 

For  some  minutes  they  left  her  alone. 

Then  Bond  returned. 

She  shivered  at  the  gravity  of  his  face. 

"Whatever  it  is,"  she  said,  "I  look  to  you  to  tell  me." 

Bond  sat  down  by  the  side  of  her  bed.  He  told  her 
the  exact  name  of  the  illness.  It  was  more  dangerous 
than  appendicitis,  more  painful  than  peritonitis.  So  long 
was  the  name  that  it  was  with  difficulty  the  doctor  re- 
strained his  professional  appreciation  of  the  word. 

"Will  the  illness  be  as  long  as  the  name?"  she  asked. 

"One  can't  exactly  say  how  long,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ainslie. 
All  depends  upon  the  constitution,  nursing,  and  so  on. 
Cases  vary." 

"But  it's  possible  to  tell  me  the  longest  time  it  takes  to 
get  through  it.  Mind,  I'm  going  to  get  through  it,"  she 
said,  "but  I  want  to  know  the  absolute  worst." 

He  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  answered: 

"Five  or  six  months.  You  mustn't  put  your  foot  to 
the  ground  for  four  months.  You  may  be  in  the  draw- 
ing-room by — well,  never  mind  by  when.  But  we're 
going  to  fight  this,  you  and  I.  You've  got  your  youth 
and  your  strength  on  your  side.  And  you  may  rely  upon 
me.  I  will  do  everything  I  can — 

"You're  keeping  something  back,"  she  said. 

Slowly  he  spoke: 

"I've  known  cases  that  were  cured  in  six  months — 
without  an  operation.  Keep  your  courage  up.  You're 
a  plucky  young  woman;  that  I  know." 

She  shut  her  eyes,  and  her  bosom  heaved. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  she  murmured. 


ILLNESS  369 

Her  heart  sank. 

"Oh,  Richard,  Richard!"  she  thought.  She  breathed 
a  desire  that  was  almost  a  prayer  that  he  would  come  to 
her.  Then  she  said: 

"I  realise  that  I  have  practically  been  sentenced  to  six 
months'  imprisonment.  I'm  not  a  coward,  doctor;  but 
there  are  certain  things  that  you  know  nothing  about  which 
make  this  isolation  almost  unendurable.  Perhaps  I  had 
better  tell  you." 

He  pressed  her  hand  reassuringly. 

"I  knew  you  when  you  were  a  child." 

"I  am  in  love  — madly  in  love!  Without  him  it  doesn't 
matter  to  me  whether  I  recover  or  not.  I  would  sooner 
die.  Don't  think  me  a  fool.  I'm  so  weak,  I'm  going  to 
cry.  We've  had  some  sort" — the  words  came  almost 
unnaturally  through  her  sobs — "we've  had  some  sort  of 
trouble,  and  I  must  see  him.  But  I  can't  get  him  to  come 
to  me." 

"If  he  knows  you're  ill,"  said  the  doctor,  consolingly, 
"surely  he  will  come!" 

"You  don't  know  him,"  she  answered  through  her  sobs. 
"He's  a  very  strange  man.  That's  why — perhaps — I 
don't  know — I  love  him!  But  you'll  always  remember, 
when  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  that  I  place  him  first, 
that  I  want  him !  That  he  is  before  my  life.  And  if  I  get 
very  weak,  and  I  tell  you  anything  more  about  him,  if 
I  ask  you  to  rush  to  the  Temple  and  bring  him  to  me, 
swear  to  me  you'll  do  it!" 

He  could  not  resist  the  pleading  in  her  eyes. 

By  sheer  self-control  the  flow  of  tears  had  ceased. 

"You  may  rely  on  me  absolutely,  of  course,  Gwendolen." 

"Now  then,"  she  said,  with  a  great  effort,  "about  an 
operation.  Do  you  think  it  will  be  necessary?" 


370  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"We — hope  not.  But  it's  impossible  to  say  just  yet. 
Unless  some  unforeseen  symptoms  develop,  we  hope  not. 
Keep  quiet.  Don't  worry.  The  nurse  will  be  here  to- 
night. " 

Then  he  left. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone  she  sent  Leah  to  Wilfred's 
bedroom  for  a  medical  dictionary,  and  looked  up  the 
name  of  her  illness.  It  was  an  extremely  complicated 
malady,  inflammation  caused  by  chill.  It  appeared  to 
be  rarely  cured,  except  in  cases  when  it  took  a  form  that 
needed  an  operation.  In  these  cases  the  illness  was 
longer,  but  was  sometimes  cured.  The  cases  in  which 
the  patients  recovered  without  one  were  attributed  to 
remarkable  vitality  and  intense  care.  Apparently  any 
sudden  movement  might  be  attended  with  the  gravest 
results. 

She  dropped  the  book  on  the  bed,  and  lay  for  a  long 
time  in  a  state  of  coma,  staring  at  the  wall. 

Oh,  if  only  Richard  would  come  to  her  he  would  give 
her  courage! 

A  terrible  foreboding  seized  her.  Although  she  did 
not  believe  that  she  was  doomed,  yet  she  dared  not  look 
forward.  For  some  time  she  remained  comatose,  and 
was  only  aroused  from  her  torpor  by  the  arrival  of  the 
nurse,  a  pretty  girl  of  about  twenty-five,  who  looked  like 
the  advertisement  of  a  nurse  offering  patent  food  to  com- 
plete strangers.  She  had  an  oval  face  and  large  blue 
eyes. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  she  was  not  yet  in  uniform. 
Apparently  she  had  been  dining  out,  and  had  not  ex- 
pected to  be  sent  for.  She  brought  into  the  sick  room 
the  atmosphere  of  the  small  restaurant  to  which  she  had 
been  taken  by  a  medical  student. 


ILLNESS  371 

She  was  flushed,  and  seemed  nervous, fussy, and  excited. 
She  asked  Leah  for  a  good  many  things,  only  occasionally 
speaking  to  Gwendolen. 

Nurse  Williams  then  went  out  of  the  room  and  returned 
dressed  in  her  uniform,  grey  in  colour  and  very  becoming. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

NURSES 

GWENDOLEN,  in  a  low  voice,  told  her  what  was  said 
to  be  the  matter. 

The  nurse  only  answered: 

"There,  there.  Don't  talk,  Mrs.  Ainslie,"  and  was 
quite  absent-minded;  the  only  interest  she  took  was  that 
of  looking  at  her  face  in  the  mirror.  Her  manner  was 
marked  by  a  complete  lack  of  womanly  sympathy  and 
interest. 

During  the  first  night  by  the  patient's  bedside  she 
answered  sharply  anything  Gwendolen  asked  her.  Clearly 
she  had  a  snappish  temper. 

But  a  great  change  came  over  her  the  next  morning 
when  the  doctors  arrived.  In  their  presence  she  seemed 
full  of  kindness  and  devotion.  She  belonged  to  a  type  of 
nurse  that  is  not  uncommon.  Before  doctors  these  nurses 
are  all  sweetness  and  sympathy,  and  deceive  them  into 
the  belief  that  this  is  their  normal  condition  when  in  the 
company  of  their  patients.  Therefore  it  is  that  medical 
men  sometimes  form  an  entirely  inaccurate  view  of  the 
characters  of  the  nurses  they  recommend. 

Gwendolen's  pain  now  was  terrible. 

She  asked  the  specialist  if  nothing  could  be  done  to 
relieve  it. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  he  said.  "Any  medicines  that 
reduce  pain  and  fever  for  the  moment  would  put  us  out 
in  our  judgment.  .  The  reduction  of  the  pain  would  vary 


NURSES  373 

the  symptoms."     Therefore  she  would  have  to  endure  it. 

In  a  few  days  she  found  the  nurse  unbearable.  For 
hours  she  would  sit  admiring  herself,  and  telling  Gwendo- 
len about  her  father,  who,  she  stated,  was  a  Colonel  in  the 
Xavy,  and  about  the  lovely  flowers  in  his  garden.  It 
appeared  that  she  was  a  lady  who  had  come  down  in  the 
world;  she  told  of  the  many  offers  of  marriage  she  had 
received  and  refused.  Her  vanity  was  colossal;  though, 
indeed,  there  was  some  excuse  for  it,  as  she  was  a  really 
pretty  woman.  Her  prettiness  was  particularly  galling 
to  Gwendolen  in  contrast  to  her  heartlessness. 

And  still  no  word  from  Richard. 

One  day  she  told  Onslowe-Bond  that  she  wished  to 
see  him  alone,  and  told  him  that  nurse  Williams  got  on 
her  nerves. 

The  doctor  seemed  much  surprised,  as  he  considered 
that  she  had  such  a  "soothing  manner;"  and,  indeed, 
in  his  presence  her  manner  was  all  that  could  be  desired. 

But  Gwendolen  felt  that  she  was  actually  jealous  of 
her — that  she  resented  the  fact  that  Onslowe-Bond  took 
more  interest  in  the  patient  than  in  the  nurse. 

When  the  doctor  had  conveyed  to  her  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  antipathetic  to  Gwendolen,  she  was  actually 
rude,  shrewish,  and  sulky;  and  it  was  indeed  with  relief 
that  Gwendolen  heard  her  mutter  a  sullen  "Good-bye." 

The  second  nurse  was,  she  felt  immediately,  a  better 
trained  one,  quicker  and  cleaner.  She  made  less  demon- 
stration of  keeping  quiet,  and  did  not  say  "Hush!" 
every  moment;  but  she  had  a  quiet,  cat-like,  capable  way 
that  was  more  comforting.  She  wore  a  blue  uniform, 
had  a  stumpy  figure,  and  slight  claims  to  good  looks. 
But  she  was  an  inveterate  gossip  and  scandal-monger. 
She  said  anything  that  came  into  her  head  without  the 
slightest  scruple,  and  she  also  suffered  from  a  vindictive 


374  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

temper.  Every  evening  Gwendolen's  temperature  went 
up  to  103,  and  her  most  miserable  moments  were  early 
in  the  morning. 

The  nurse,  sleepy  and  cross,  was  never  in  a  good  hu- 
mour, and  did  all  she  had  to  do,  as  it  were,  under  protest. 

Her  great  joy  and  excitement — as  it  is  for  most  nurses — 
was  the  visit  of  the  doctor,  for  which  she  made  the  most 
elaborate  toilet  preparations  after  a  very  hurried  and 
scamped  preparation  of  Gwendolen. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  generally  repeated  several 
times:  "He  said,  'Quite  right,  nurse.'  Fancy,  he  re- 
marked how  well  I  was  looking.  Who  could  look  well 
after  being  up  all  night  ?"  And  so  forth. 

Nurse  Ellis  had  a  habit  of  saying,  "Oh,  you'll  get  all 
right,"  at  one  moment,  and  at  another  assuring  Gwendo- 
len that  she  saw  "death  in  her  face"  as  soon  as  she  came 
in,  but  Gwendolen  was  not  to  tell  the  doctor  she  said  so. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  fortnight  she  began  to  see  it 
herself.  To  look  at  her  reflection  in  the  hand-glass  by 
the  side  of  the  bed  brought  tears.  Her  eyes  were  almost 
a  death-warrant;  her  face  had  shrunk  to  nothing.  It 
was  a  white  mask  with  huge  eyes  staring  from  it. 

One  day,  which  was  just  before  the  crisis  she  be- 
lieved would  be  her  last,  she  made  her  will. 

To  Onslowe-Bond  she  said: 

"I  want  you  to  go  down  to  the  Temple,  to  Essex  Court. 
I  want  you  to  find  Mr.  Richard  Meyville.  I  want 
you  to  tell  him  that  I  am — dying;  that  I  can't  die 
without  seeing  him.  You  must  bring  him  back  to  me 
at  once." 

He  promised. 

In  an  hour's  time  Leah  announced  Dr.  Onslowe-Bond. 

Instantly  Gwendolen  raised  herself  on  her  pillow  in 
expectation.  There  was  a  dash  of  colour  on  either  cheek. 


NURSES  375 

Then  when  Bond  entered  the  room,  and  she  saw  that 
there  was  no  one  accompanying  him,  she  sank  back 
prostrate. 

"Why  didn't  he  come?     Did  you  see  him?" 

"I  saw  him  in  court.     I  had  two  words  with  him." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

The  doctor  hesitated  to  answer. 

"I'm  afraid  I  bring  you  bad  news.  He  said  he  was 
too  busy." 

"Was  that  all?" 

"That  was  all." 

"Did  you  tell  him  I  was  dying?" 

"I  told  him  you  were  very  dangerously  ill." 

"And  that's  all  he  said?" 

"That's  all  he  said.  But  I  think  he  felt  the  shock 
very  much." 

"Are  men,"  she  cried,  fiercely  indignant,  "as  cruel 
as  that?" 

The  rest  was  lost  in  sobs  and  tears. 

Tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  the  kind-hearted  doctor. 
Richard's  behaviour  seemed  to  him  incredible — brutal 
to  the  last  degree.  That  evening  he  found  out  his  pri- 
vate address  and  called  upon  him. 

Richard  rose  from  a  sofa  upon  which  he  had  been 
lying,  wan  and  haggard. 

Dr.  Bond  thought  he  looked  almost  as  ill  as  Gwen- 
dolen. 

"I  quite  understand  your  coming,  Dr.  Bond,  and  I 
quite  understand  how  you  must  regard  me.  But  there 
are  matters  which  it  would  be  idle  to  explain  to  you. 
Tell  me — tell  me  about  Mrs.  Ainslie." 

Bond  told  him  that  the  patient  was  dangerously  ill, 
but  that  he,  personally,  believed  she  would  recover. 

Richard  shook  his  head  sadly. 


376  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Neither  by  word  nor  by  look  did  he  convey  any  hope 
that  she  would  recover.  And  yet  he  was  clearly,  intensely 
anxious  as  to  her  condition.  He  put  many  questions  as 
to  the  way  in  which  she  suffered  and  the  way  she  bore 
her  pain. 

The  doctor  did  not  understand  the  character  of  this 
eminent  advocate.  Beloved  by  a  beautiful  woman,  ob- 
viously in  love  with  a  beautiful  woman,  why,  in  Heaven's 
name,  was  the  man  so  cruel  ?  Why,  if  he  were  suffering 
so  acutely  at  the  knowledge  of  her  peril,  why  did  he  not 
rush  to  her  side? 

Now  Richard  had  just  written  a  letter  to  Tufnell, 
in  which  he  stated  that  all  was  over  between  Mrs.  Ainslie 
and  himself;  that  he  would  never  see  her  again. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  "I  will  come  to  Mrs.  Ainslie  if 
she  is  dying — but  only  if  she  is  dying.  This  is  absolutely 
final.  I  can  explain  nothing  to  you.  Don't  you  see 
what  I  am — a  complete  wreck?  You  may  guess  how 
I'm  suffering.  No,  I  don't  think  you  can  guess  how  I'm 
suffering.  I  didn't  know  till  now  that  there  existed  such 
pain." 

To  terminate  the  interview,  he  added,  in  a  broken 
voice : 

"Thank  you — thank  you  very  much  for  all  you  are 
doing — for  Gwendolen." 

When  the  doctor  had  gone,  Richard  fell  on  the  sofa; 
his  whole  body  quivered. 

Gwendolen's  night  nurse  was  scarcely  more  conge- 
nial than  Nurse  Ellis. 

Nurse  Stewart,  a  heavy,  almost  horse-faced,  woman, 
big  of  bone,  heavy  of  movement,  and  wearing  pince-nez, 
spoke  with  a  Scotch  accent,  a  hideous,  harsh,  Scotch 
accent. 

She  seemed  to  take  a  pleasure  in  irritating  the  patient. 


NURSES  377 

She  declined  to  tell  Gwendolen  her  temperature  when  she 
had  taken  it,  having  pretended  to  Bond  that  it  only  made 
her  nervous.  Still,  Gwendolen  could  guess  it  almost  ex- 
actly, having  noted  her  sensations  on  those  occasions 
when  she  had  been  told  it.  It  reached  103  every  evening, 
an  exhausting  condition.  It  was  like  being  physically 
mad  whilst  having  one's  mental  capacity  clear.  The 
nerves  and  pulses  were  out  of  control,  but  her  powers  of 
thought  were  normal.  Of  course,  she  was  not  as  yet 
delirious,  but  the  hours  passed  so  slowly  that  she  was 
always  asking  Nurse  Stewart  what  time  it  was.  At  last 
she  had  a  little  clock  placed  where  she  could  look  at  it, 
and  that  was  a  great  comfort,  though  before  long  even 
that  was  placed  out  of  her  sight. 

Sometimes  she  thought  an  hour  had  passed,  and  when 
she  found  it  was  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  burst  into 
tears.  She  always  counted  the  minutes  until  she  should 
see  the  doctors  again,  thinking  that  they  would  bring 
her  relief  or  encouragement. 

Bond  tried  endless  drugs  to  relieve  her  pain,  but  with- 
out success.  Occasionally  a  dose  of  phenacetin  would 
mend  matters  for  half  an  hour,  but  soon  that  was 
forbidden,  as  it  decreased  the  action  of  the  heart. 

She  was  neither  allowed  nor  could  she  take  nourish- 
ment, except  a  little  milk  or  beef-tea.  This  part  of  her 
illness  was  terribly  long  and  dreary.  At  night  she  sel- 
dom slept  for  more  than  ten  minutes  at  a  time,  and  woke 
up  always  in  greater  pain. 

But  the  anguish  of  her  body  was  as  nothing  compared 
to  the  misery  that  Richard's  silence  caused  her. 

Why  had  he  never  answered  her  letters?  There  were 
moments  when  she  was  seized  with  an  insane  desire  to 
rush  down  to  the  library  and  telephone  for  him.  Her 
own  telephone  at  her  bedside  had,  of  course,  been  dis- 


378  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

connected.  But  she  felt  that  if  she  could  once  get  into 
communication  with  him  he  could  not  resist  her  passion- 
ate appeal.  If  he  could  hear  her  voice,  would  it  not 
recall  to  him  the  hours,  the  days  of  perfect  bliss  that 
they  had  passed  together? 

The  early  mornings  were  horrible,  for  she  was  always 
awake  before  the  nurse  was  ready,  and  was  told  "to 
keep  quiet"  and  "go  to  sleep  again."  But  the  function 
of  sleep  was  exhausted.  The  nurse  must  have  known 
that  there  was  in  her  no  more  power  of  sleep. 

She  greeted  seven  with  relative  delight,  for  then  she 
was  allowed  a  little  tea,  and,  at  eight,  her  letters. 

How  she  looked  forward  to  those  letters!  They  were 
her  one  support  of  interest.  Letters  that  would  not 
usually  have  interested  her,  pleased  her;  she  welcomed 
even  bills.  The  turn  of  a  phrase,  the  news  in  a  letter, 
the  quiet  sympathy  contained  in  some  of  them  gave  her 
the  greatest  pleasure. 

She  also  took  keen  interest  in  the  cards  and  inquiries 
she  received.  She  mentally  determined  that  if  she  ever 
recovered  she  would  never  omit  to  write  or  to  inquire  or  to 
send  flowers  to  anyone  who  was  ill.  Oh,  the  joy  of  re- 
ceiving flowers!  If  only  a  bunch  of  violets  had  come 
from  Richard,  she  felt  that  she  would  breathe  strength 
from  their  perfume. 

A  great  many  flowers  came,  but  she  was  not  allowed 
to  keep  them  in  her  room.  They  were  always  sent  down- 
stairs when  she  had  seen  them,  and  it  pleased  her  to  hear 
that  the  drawing-room  looked  like  a  garden  of  flowers. 
It  gave  her  delight,  pride  and  delight,  to  know  that  they 
were  seen  by  the  more  intimate  visitors  who  called. 

At  length  the  pain  became  so  intolerable  that  she 
hardly  had  a  moment's  respite,  and  she  saw  that  the 
doctors  were  anxious. 


NURSES  379 

They  called  in  another  specialist,  a  man  who  was 
the  greatest  authority  in  England  on  the  subject,  and 
whose  attention  it  was  a  difficult  task  to  obtain.  He 
rarely  saw  any  patients  except  Royalty. 

His  arrival  was  a  great  event  in  the  sick-room.  The 
preparations  of  the  nurses  so  that  they  should  look  their 
best  were  more  than  elaborate.  Obviously  the  nurses 
took  pride  in  her  having  three  doctors,  and  it  seemed  to 
them  it  was  a  great  credit  to  be  nursing  in  so  dangerous 
and  important  a  case. 

Yet  they  did  not  seem  to  consider  her  appearance  very 
much,  nor  did  they  spare  time  to  give  her  courage.  The 
great  doctor  sat  by  her  side  and  made  a  thorough  ex- 
amination; the  other  two  did  the  same.  Without  saying 
a  word,  they  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Onslowe- 
Bond  behind  to  cheer  her  up  with  a  kind  word  of  en- 
couragement. He  called  her  a  plucky  woman,  and  told 
her  she  would  soon  be  well. 

He  then  went  out. 

The  suspense  of  waiting  was  terrible.  It  was  inter- 
minable. Yet  she  felt  resigned  to  the  worst  in  a  kind 
of  helpless  way.  Still,  she  did  not  give  up  hope  entirely. 

Bond  returned  and  stated: 

"Well,  Sir  Septimus  says  that  if  certain  symptoms 
don't  appear  within  a  week,  you  will  gradually  recover — 
without  an  operation.  This  is  very  good  news.  He  has 
ordered  some  things  that  will  relieve  the  pain,  and  you  are 
to  keep  quiet  and  hope  for  the  best." 

"I  am  always  keeping  quiet,"  she  replied  plaintively. 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "we  can't  complain  of  you. 
You've  done  very  well.  But  the  great  man  has  known 
a  case  like  yours  become  absolutely  cured  by  the  rest 
and  the  warmth  and  the  care  you  are  having.  Be  brave, 
little  lady;  I  have  great  hopes  now." 


380  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

He  smiled  reassuringly,  gave  some  directions  to  the 
nurses,  and  then  left. 

She  tried  to  elicit  further  information  from  Nurse 
Ellis. 

But  she  was  not  communicative.  Still,  even  from 
her  she  gathered  that,  if  she  had  a  respite  for  a  week, 
there  was  hope. 

She  had  the  greatest  dread  and  terror  of  an  operation, 
and  felt  convinced  that  she  would  not  survive  it.  She 
asked  the  nurse  if  she  knew  of  anyone  who  had  had  it. 

At  first  Nurse  Ellis  scouted  the  notion  of  its  being 
required. 

Now  she  had  "known  it  from  the  first." 

Then  she  added  that  people  had  often  recovered,  but 
it  was  a  long,  tedious  business.  At  best  she  would  be 
in  bed  for  six  months. 

On  hearing  this  she  had  an  outburst  of  terror. 

What  was  the  good  of  all  this  suffering — to  end,  where  ? 

Supposing  she  recovered,  was  it  likely  that  the  man  who 
ignored  her  when  she  was  at  death's  door  would  ever 
take  any  interest  in  her  again  ? 

She  felt  that,  even  at  the  best,  when  she  became  con- 
valescent, the  sight  of  Richard  in  the  street  would  kill 
her. 

At  last  the  medicines  ordered  by  the  great  man  pro- 
duced their  effect.  The  pain  became  less  poignant, 
and  she  grew  calmer,  though  the  fever  that  night  was  a 
little  higher  than  usual  from  Lhc  excitement  of  the  day. 

She  overheard  a  conversation  between  the  nurses 
when  they  thought  she  was  asleep. 

Nurse  Ellis  said: 

"I  knew  it  was  a  case  for  an  operation  from  the  first; 
anyone  could  see  that.  No,  she  won't  get  over  it.  Bless 
you.  it's  a  had  case'" 


NURSES  381 

Nurse  Stewart  replied: 

"Yes,  she  will.  You  don't  know  anything  of  this  sort 
of  work.  But,  of  course,  poor  thing,  she  will  be  an 
invalid  for  life,  like  Lady  -  — ." 

Then  she  lost  the  thread  of  the  conversation. 

She  heard  some  murmured  remarks,  and  then  they 
began  to  chaff  each  other  about  being  "mashed"  on 
Dr.  Onslowe-Bond. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

"STANDETH   THE   REAPER" 

"May  it  please  your  lordship  and  gentlemen  of  the 
jury 

Scarcely  were  the  words  out  of  Richard's  mouth  than 
he  felt  his  gown  tugged  at  from  behind.  Looking  round 
irritably,  he  found  Dr.  Bond  at  his  side. 

"What  is  it?"  he  whispered.  But  the  expression  on 
the  doctor's  face  told  him  what  the  answer  was. 

"You  must  come  at  once,  Mr.  Meyville.  Mrs.  Ainslie 
is " 

Hastily  Richard  made  an  apology  to  the  judge.  He 
was  unavoidably  compelled  to  be  elsewhere.  His  junior 
would  open  the  case  for  che  defendant. 

The  judge  hesitated.  He  stared  curiously  at  the 
waxen  face  of  the  barrister.  He  noted  that  his  frame 
was  swaying  to  and  fro.  He  assumed  that  sudden 
illness  had  overtaken  him.  He  granted  the  required 
permission. 

Then  Richard,  with  his  gown  fluttering  behind  him, 
strode  rapidly  from  the  court.  He  rushed  at  top  speed 
along  the  crowded  corridor,  scarcely  noticing  whether 
Bond  was  following  or  not.  Down  the  winding  stone 
stairs  he  darted  until  he  came  to  the  robing- room.  The 
doctor  drew  up  breathlessly  behind  him.  He  flung  off 
his  wig.  The  attendant,  a  squat,  brown-bearded  man, 
took  it  clumsily.  "I  ought  to  congratulate  you,  sir," 
he  said. 

Richard  turned  on  him. 


"STANDETH  THE  REAPER"  383 

"On   what?" 

The  man,  with  astonished  eyes,  replied: 

"Why,  sir,  on  your  having  taken  silk." 

Richard  made  no  reply.  What  did  silk  matter  to  him 
now? 

Forestalling  the  slow  movements  of  the  attendant,  he 
seized  his  hat.  Without  troubling  to  remove  his  white 
barrister's  bands,  he  preceded  Bond  through  the  swing 
doors  and  out  into  the  Strand. 

The  two  entered  the  doctor's  brougham.  For  some 
minutes  there  was  silence  as  they  went  rapidly  westwards. 
At  last  these  words  came: 

"Is  there — any  hope?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

Another  silence. 

"We  shall  be  in  time?" 

"I  think  so." 

Richard  felt  his  heart  beating  with  leaden  thumps.  A 
strange  sensation  of  guilt  oppressed  him.  Just  so  did 
the  hearts  of  prisoners  beat  in  the  Old  Bailey  when  they 
were  waiting  for  the  jury  to  decide  their  fate.  She  might 
be  dead  before  he  reached  her.  He  might  only  be  in 
time  to  plant  burning  kisses  on  cold  lips.  Why  didn't 
Bond  speak?  Bond  did  not  speak  because  he  felt  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  a  cold,  callous,  unsympathetic 
nature,  a  man  devoid  of  pity,  incapable  of  emotion. 
But  Richard,  in  his  heart,  felt  bitter  pity  for  Gwendolen, 
sinister  condemnation  of  himself.  Who  was  he  that  he 
should  sit  in  judgment  upon  her  ?  Who  was  he  who,  on 
practically  no  evidence  at  all,  no  tangible  evidence,  at 
least,  should  sentence  her  to  a  doom  which  was,  perhaps, 
a  death  sentence  ? 

An  entire  reaction  possessed  him  as  the  brougham 
passed  between  the  jingling  motor-omnibuses,  and  the 


384  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

chaffing  cabmen.  The  comedy  of  life  was  going  on 
around  him,  and  he,  if  he  were  yet  in  time,  would  be 
playing  the  greatest  tragedy  of  life.  Self-condemnation 
held  him  by  the  throat.  Here  was  a  woman,  a  pearl 
among  women,  who  had  made  him  what  he  was,  what 
he  was  proud  to  be — that  he  frankly  admitted — and  she, 
dying,  perhaps  through  him.  Supposing  she  were  guilty  ? 
Hers  was  a  crime  that  a  lover  should  surely  forgive. 
Any  sacrifice  of  honour  that  a  woman  makes  for  a  man 
she  loves  is  held  to  bind  him  closer  to  her.  If  a  woman 
has  given  her  honour  to  him,  that  man,  by  every  code 
of  both  man  and  woman's  honour,  is  tied  for  ever  to  her 
by  the  bond  of  her  shame.  She  had  given  more  than  her 
honour.  And  he  had  cast  her  aside,  and  left  her  to  die 
in  misery,  a  solitary  death. 

He!  Because,  forsooth,  he  had  detected  an  action 
indicative  of  guilt,  had  treated  her  as  a  murderess. 

He!  What  was  he  himself?  His  action  in  the  affair 
of  Billy  Brinstable  made  him,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  an 
accessory  before  the  fact,  and  therefore  guilty  of  murder. 
If  Gwendolen  had  actually  poisoned  her  husband,  and 
if  he  knew  that  she  had  poisoned  her  husband,  his  con- 
duct was  legally  that  of  an  accessory  after  the  fact,  scarcely 
less  guilty  than  the  murderess  herself. 

He,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  though  the  law  condemned 
him  not  at  all,  was  the  murderer  of  Gwendolen. 

Fool!  fool!  that  he  had  been!  Why  did  he  not  recog- 
nise the  great  law  of  life  that  love  is  the  greatest  of  all 
laws,  that  infidelity  is  the  greatest  of  all  moral  crimes. 
Life  had  offered  him  everything,  Life  had  given  him 
most  things.  But  for  his  hideous  behaviour  to  Gwendolen, 
his  might  have  been  a  splendid  career;  rich  in  happiness, 
and  love,  and  triumph.  He,  a  King's  Counsel,  married 
to  the  woman  he  loved.  Shame  at  his  conduct,  indigna- 


"STANDETH  THE  REAPER"  385 

tion  at  himself  cut  his  reflections  short.  The  vision  of 
the  woman  lying  on  the  bed  brought  tears  into  his  eyes. 

With  a  trembling  voice,  as  the  brougham  turned  into 
Green  Street,  he  asked: 

"Is  she  in  pain?" 

"Not  now,"  was  the  answer. 

Quickly  he  looked  at  the  sphinx-like  doctor  sitting  by 
his  side.  What  did  those  words  mean?  Was  she  now, 
even  now,  beyond  the  reach  of  pain  ? 

Dr.  Bond's  head  was  turned  away. 

The  sound  of  the  wheels  ceased  as  the  brougham  jolted 
on  the  dirty  yellow  straw  and  drew  up  at  the  house. 

Instantly  the  door  opened,  and  Richard  rushed  in. 

He  was  conscious  of  the  sound  of  voices,  women's 
voices,  in  the  dining-room. 

Flinging  his  hat  on  the  rack,  he  ran  up  the  stairs, 
Bond  close  at  his  heels.  Instinctively  he  put  his  hand 
on  the  knob  of  Gwendolen's  door.  The  doctor  motioned 
him  aside,  passed  by  him,  and  very  slowly  and  deliberately 
opened  the  door  of — Wilfred's  room. 

"She  has  been  moved  here,"  he  said  as  he  entered. 
"Wait  a  minute." 

Behind  the  half-shut  door  Richard  stood  in  an  agony 
of  apprehension. 

So  they  had  moved  her  into  Wilfred's  room  to  die. 
The  door  would  open,  and  he  would  see  her  in  her  last 
moments,  lying  on  that  bed  on  which  from  that  very 
spot  he  had  seen  her  husband  in  his  last  moments. 

"No,  no,  it  can't  be!"  he  said  to  himself,  through 
tightly  clenched  teeth.  If  she  really  had  killed  him, 
she  would  never  have  allowed  herself  to  be  taken  to  his 
bed  to  die. 

Slowly  the  door  opened,  and  the  grave  face  of  the 
doctor  gave  him  permission  to  enter.  Though  the 


386  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

doctor  spoke  no  word,  Richard  knew  he  was  not  too 
late.  As  he  went  into  the  room,  he  heard  the  rustle 
of  skirts  at  another  door. 

Then  Bond  went  out. 

They  were  left  alone. 

In  the  dim,  pale  light  he  saw  her.  Her  face  was  a 
white  spot  almost  hidden  by  her  heavy,  silken  hair. 
Out  of  her  face  shone  her  wonderful  eyes,  more  beautiful 
than  they  had  ever  been,  in  contrast  to  the  cold  pallor 
of  her  face. 

A  great  gasp  came  into  his  throat. 

Suddenly  he  rushed  forward : 

"My  darling!     My  darling!     My  darling!" 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him;  her  pale  lips  made  a 
feeble  movement. 

On  the  white  satin  coverlet  lay  a  white  hand,  almost 
transparent,  with  blue  veins  standing  out. 

"Speak  to  me,  speak  to  me!"  he  pleaded. 

She  smiled;  a  feeble,  apathetic  smile,  that  he  strove  to 
translate  into  a  smile  of  forgiveness,  rippled  from  her  lips. 
Then,  with  a  great  effort,  she  whispered  to  him: 

"Oh,  my  Richard!  Oh,  my  Richard!  Tell  me  that 
you  love  me — before  I  go!" 

He  covered  the  poor  little  cold  hands  with  kisses  on 
which  fell  tears. 

"I  love  you  more  than  ever,  my  darling.  I'm  a  brute, 
and  I  know  it.  You  must  not  leave  me  now.  It's  too 
cruel,  too  cruel!" 

A  spasm  as  of  surrender  shook  her  body,  and  her  eyes 
closed.  In  the  silence  of  the  room  he  knelt  down  as  one 
only  kneels  at  a  shrine  or  at  a  death-bed.  The  perfume 
of  the  red  and  white  roses  filled  the  room.  Semi-con- 
sciously  he  knew  that  the  room  was  a  bower  of  roses.  He 
understood  that,  when  no  power  on  earth  could  ward 


"STANDETH  THE  REAPER"  387 

off  death,  her  room  was  filled  with  the  flowers  of  her 
friends,  and — there  was  not  a  single  flower  that  had 
come  from  him. 

Passionately  he  kissed  her  hand  again,  not  knowing 
whether  she  felt  or  no. 

Then,  to  his  great  joy,  the  eyes  opened  again,  and,  mir- 
acle of  miracles,  she  spoke. 

Her  voice  seemed  a  little  stronger  now.  Evidently  she 
had  nerved  herself  for  a  great  effort,  so  that  in  her  last 
message  her  lips  should  be  under  control  of  her  brain. 

"I  have  made  my  will,  darling." 

He  grasped  her  hand,  as  though  to  compel  her  to  avoid 
the  topic.  For  that  one  moment,  at  least,  he  was  not  an 
egotist. 

But  firmly  she  continued:  "I  have  left  you  everything, 
dearest.  I  hope  you  will  be  happy." 

"Happy!"  he  echoed  hopelessly. 

"Yes,  very  happy,"  she  answered.  "Let  there  be  always 
roses — when  there  can  be  roses — over  my  grave.  Roses 
scarlet  and  white." 

Her  lips  broke  into  a  smile  of  complete  contentment. 
Her  other  hand  beckoned  to  him.  She  had  not  the  strength 
to  draw  him  towards  her. 

He  bent  over  her,  his  face  only  a  few  inches  from  hers, 
the  face  of  a  man,  who  should  be  great,  peering  into  the 
face  of  a  woman  who  had  achieved  his  greatness. 

Whether  the  music  was  of  this  earth  or  not  he  scarcely 
knew.  It  was  soft  and  sweet  and  miraculous: 

"Here  in  my  Garden  of  Roses 
Roses  are  scarlet  and  white" 

Then  the  song  ceased. 

By  the  movement  of  her  lips  he  followed  the  words. 


388  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

Just  as  clearly  as  she,  when  in  the  triumph  of  her  beauty, 
her  health,  and  her  happiness  had  sung  the  song,  just  so 
clearly  did  he  hear  the  words: 

"His  scythe  shall  reap  no  harvest 
Sown  in  the  -fields  of  green 
The  reaper  hath  marked  for  his  reaping 
My  Lady  Gwendolen" 

The  lips  fluttered  like  butterflies'  wings,  and  then  were 
still. 

He  threw  himself  upon  her  in  a  paroxysm  of  fear. 

"Come  back  to  me,  oh,  my  darling!  Can't  my  lips 
bring  you  back  from  death?  Speak  to  me,  Gwendolen, 
speak  to  me!  You  can't  leave  me  alone  like  this!" 

But  the  lips  were  closed  and  the  eyes  were  open. 

And  he  knew. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  SUMMING-UP 

HARDLY  heeding  the  words  of  his  manservant,  Richard 
staggered  into  the  sitting-room  of  his  flat. 

\\iih  g/assy  eyes  he  gazed  vaguely  at  his  brother,  who 
was  sitting  in  a  chair  waiting  for  him.  Montague  was 
the  last  man  he  would  have  desired  to  see  at  such  a  time. 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  His  haggard  appearance 
aroused  even  the  eminent  actor  out  of  self-absorption. 

"Dick,  you're  looking  ill.  Have  a  whisky-and-soda; 
I've  just  had  one." 

"Brandy." 

Montague  poured  him  out  a  quantity. 

"More!" 

Richard  drank  down  half  a  tumblerful.     The  glass 
dropped    to    the   floor. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

Richard  did  not  answer. 

Montague  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  twenty  minutes.  I  must  be 
off  at  once.  But  I  want  to  speak  to  you  seriously." 

The  other  opened  his  half -closed  eyes. 

"Yes?" 

"I  am  in  a  very  awkward  position,  Dick.  Something 
must  be  done,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Are  you 
listening?" 

"I'm  listening." 

"  This  is  the  turning  point  of  my  career. "  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  added,  with  a  half -cynical  laugh. 


390  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

"But  I've  no  money  to  turn  with.  My  backers  are  sick 
of  going  on.  We  have  been  losing  money  for  a  long  time. 
Still,  if  I  can  tide  over  things  now,  I've  got  the  most  splen- 
did advertisement  any  actor  ever  had.  What  do  you 
think  I've  done?"  he  continued  proudly. 

Richard  hazarded  no  guess. 

"This  morning  I  was  secretly  married  to  Lady  Pamela 
1'Estocq." 

Richard's  eyelids  blinked;  he  displayed  no  emotion. 
He  was  so  deeply  sunk  in  sorrow  that  he  scarcely  realised 
the  presence  of  his  brother. 

"Do  you  understand  what  that  means?"  asked  Mon- 
tague, drawing  himself  to  his  full  height  and  walking  up 
and  down  the  room.  "I  have  married  the  daughter  of  a 
peer.  No  other  actor  has  ever  done  that.  Numbers  of 
actresses  have  married  peers.  But  I  am  the  first  actor  to 
marry  a  peer's  daughter.  I  shall  certainly  get  my  knight- 
hood." Then  he  stood,  looking  down  at  his  brother's 
prostrate  form.  "If  I  can't  get  ten  thousand  pounds 
this  week  I  shall  be  turned  neck  and  crop  out  of  my 
theatre." 

Richard  brought  his  mind  back  from  the  bedside  of 
Gwendolen,  and  looked  up  at  Montague. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  answered. 

Montague  persisted. 

"It  would  be  a  very  good  investment,  you  see,  because 
the  next  piece  is  sure  to  be  a  success.  My  marriage  is 
bound  to  be  an  excellent  advertisement.  Whether  Lash- 
bridge  gives  his  consent  or  not,  it  is  sure  to  boom  the 
piece.  And  I  want  you  to  use  your  influence  with  Lash- 
bridge  to  get  his  consent.  Now,  what  do  you  say,  Dick  ? 
Surely  you  know  of  somebody  who  would  like  to  back  me  ? 
Some  of  your  clients?" 

With  a  weary  movement  of  the  hand,  which  amounted 


THE  SUMMING-UP  391 

almost  to  motioning  his  brother  towards  the  door,  Rich- 
ard replied: 

"I  know  of  nobody." 

Montague  argued: 

"Think,  think,  think,  Dick!  Pull  yourself  together. 
You're  the  most  absent-minded  man  I  ever  knew.  Why, 
you've  come  from  the  Law  Courts  in  your  bands!" 

"I  can't  think,  Montague,  of  anything.  At  least,  I've 
got  something  else  to  think  of.  This  is  not  the  moment 
for  me  to  raise  money  for  masquerades." 

The  actor's  presence  hurt  him  hideously,  and  he  rose 
from  the  sofa  as  though  to  end  the  interview. 

But  Montague  was  not  to  be  denied.  He  put  his 
hand  on  Richard's  shoulder. 

"Dick,  you  don't  know  the  worst.  A  lot  of  money 
that  was  lost  over  my  last  piece  was  my  mother's — our 
mother's.  She  can't  afford  to  lose  it." 

Bitterly  Richard  answered: 

"You  should  have  thought  of  that  before  you  gave  her 
the  opportunity.  But  she  shall  not  lose  it,"  he  went  on. 
"I  will  refund  whatever  she  has  lost." 

"That  is  very  good  of  you,  Dick — very  noble.  But, 
for  the  sake  of  the  family,  I  assume  you  will  not  allow  me 
to  be  turned  out  of  my  theatre.  Look  at  the  ignominy  of 
it!  It  would  be  the  end  of  me.  I  should  be  driven  into 
the  provinces.  And  you  know  I  have  never  been  appre- 
ciated properly  in  the  provinces  or  in  America.  I  am 
essentially  a  fashionable  actor.  I  thought,  perhaps,  that 
Mrs.  Ainslie  might  be  willing — might — 

With  a  great  effort  Richard  compelled  himself  to  say  in 
a  low  voice: 

"Mrs.   Ainslie   is  dead!" 

Here  was  the  final  blow  to  Montague's  hopes.  In 
the  presence  of  this  extraordinary  calamity  the  brothers 


392  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

became  brothers.  The  theatrical  in  both  their  natures 
was  swept  away. 

Montague  took  his  brother  by  the  hand.  For  a  minute 
neither  spoke. 

Richard  felt  an  overmastering  desire  to  unbosom  him- 
self. The  pent-up  anguish  of  the  last  few  days  demanded 
expression.  To  whom  could  he  unbosom  himself — to 
whom  could  he  confess — if  not  his  brother? 

Slowly  he  told  him  the  story  of  the  tragedy.  Though 
occasionally  stifled  by  his  sobs,  he  described  how  im- 
petuously, on  the  flimsiest  of  evidence — 

He  described  the  agony  that  would  haunt  him  through- 
out his  life. 

When  he  had  finished,  his  eyes  were  dry  of  tears,  but 
his  face  was  very  grey. 

The  actor  had  listened  spellbound. 

"A  very  strange  story, "  he  reflected.  "Pity  it  wouldn't 
make  a  play!" 


2835  MAYFAIR 

BY 

FRANK  RICHARDSON 

"the  wittiest  man  in  London" 


A  daring  innovation  worked  out  in  a 
way  that  appeals  to  the  lovers  of  sen- 
sational fiction.  A  wild  extravaganza, 
witty  and  smart — Brooklyn  Eagle 

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A  decidedly  unconventional  and  original  novel. 

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